Leitmotif
by iamphantomgirl
Summary: The Siege of Paris forces the ghost to become a man and to take responsibility for those he loves. After a tragedy sends him to America, he finds a new life and a new love. A coming of age tale for both Erik and Christine.
1. Prologue: Discovery

_I would like to thank my beta, rappleyea. Without her, this story would not have been possible. She has spent countless hours pouring over chapters, revising, reading, offering insight into my characters and plots. Phantom hugs to you!_

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_Savannah, Georgia – 1930_

Warm light slanted through the vented gable end on the house, creating a specter of dancing dust particles in the stuffy, cramped attic space. Old relics of furniture and forgotten mementos of fifty years of marriage and heirlooms preserved from wars in two different countries lined the walls. For the family who had acquired this vast quantity of goods, they were memories and beloved items, now stored to make room for new and modern things.

For Cassandra and Gregory Jeunet, the attic was an easy escape from strict and slightly overbearing Grandfather Jeunet and Grandmother Jeunet. The cousins had found this place years ago when they were young children, looking to escape that same Grandfather who watched them like a hawk for signs of mischief and a Grandmother who interfered in his every attempt at discipline. At the respective ages of nineteen and twenty-one, Cassandra and Gregory were now mature enough to enjoy the weekends when their parents would go into the city, leaving them to spend time with their beloved Grandfather and Grandmother Jeunet.

"It's hot up here," Cassandra complained, fanning herself rapidly. "Why don't we go down to the river?"

"Because Grandfather has forbidden it," Gregory replied with a smirk. He idly plucked the string of a violin as if it were a guitar, frowning when he found it out of tune. "And heaven's to _Betsy_ if we do something that Grandfather has forbidden. Although I think that particular rule might be left over from ten years ago before either of us could swim."

"Well we can't stay up here. Even in March this state gets hotter than a mattress at Kessler's Boarding House."

"Cassandra!" Gregory chuckled at her ribald humor even as he cringed from her brass manner. His Uncle Richard would be appalled at the way his young daughter was speaking, to say nothing of the way she had her dress shucked up over her knees, ever the tomboy. "What do you know about Kessler's?"

"I know I saw you going in there last Saturday evening when I walked home from Lucy's after dinner," Cassandra replied, tilting her nose at him. "What were you doing in there anyway?"

Gregory blushed and looked away, not about to admit what happened in places like that. "Nothing you should ever know about," he muttered, hoping to appease her.

Cassandra pulled her long hair up into a twist and held it onto her head, wishing for a breath of wind in the attic. Downstairs Grandfather Jeunet would be sitting outside on the porch with a glass of wine and an electric fan, while Grandmother Jeunet sat beside him sleeping. "Well, if we're going to stay up here we ought to at least look through some of these trunks. We always say we will and we never do."

"That's because you're always looking at the dresses."

"That's because I'm a girl!" Cassandra retorted, and climbed to her feet. She looked around at the dust sheets that covered the majority of the furniture and peeked beneath them until she found a large trunk that looked as if it had been crafted by a Parisian carpenter.

"Look, we can open this one first."

Gregory cast a disinterested gaze onto the trunk. "It's probably nothing more than Grandmother's dresses. I don't see how that old woman could have ever fit into anything up here."

Cassandra sniffed. "I hope I have her figure when I'm her age. Haven't you seen the wedding photograph of her? She was beautiful."

Gregory rolled his eyes, but moved to investigate the trunk. "It's locked."

"So open it," Cassandra ordered impatiently. She removed a hair pin and thrust it into his hands, tapping her toe until Gregory began to work on the lock.

Gregory became frustrated after a few tries, and ultimately quit when Cassandra's hairpin broke in half. "It's useless. Let's just go down to the river. We can sneak out the back door, and they'll never hear us."

Cassandra snatched another scarce hairpin from her head and pushed Gregory out of the way. She inserted the pin into the lock and jiggled it slightly with a frown. She worked the lock for several minutes before she finally felt the tumblers fall into place. She let out a gleeful squeal when the antique lock fell open.

"I did it!"

"Right," Gregory muttered, but left it at that. If he pressed the issue, Cassandra would tell all his friends that she'd done what he failed to accomplish, and characteristically over exaggerate. He watched with a scowl as she opened the trunk and began pulling out a bundle of papers, covered in dust.

"Eeew," Cassandra complained, "there's probably a million bugs in here."

"No, worse. It's more opera music," Gregory said, sinking to his knees beside her. "I don't see how anyone ever listens to this. If I have to sit through another I think I'll scream."

"That's because you have no taste. If Grandfather heard you saying that, he'd make you memorize some difficult violin concerto."

Gregory ignored her and laid aside the scores for what looked like the most popular operas from the late nineteenth century. He might not like to listen to the screeching that went on, but in this family, it was a requirement that he know every detail of opera and its beginnings. That was the main source of contention between him and his father, who believed that opera and classical symphonies were the only true forms of music.

"What is this?" Cassandra asked, showing Gregory a strange looking black case. It bore a wax emblem on the front with dust and debris embedded into the sticky surface, making it look like a rather hairy skull. "Here, I don't want to touch that thing. It looks evil."

Gregory gave her an unflattering stare, though he was used to Cassandra's drama. He'd grown up with her just as closely as he would have his own sibling, but their parents had each been blessed with only one child apiece. Their grandparent's only other offspring was their Aunt Millie, or Emmaline, who had never married, being far too busy gracing the stages in New York to bother with such a thing as a husband or children, though she occasionally brought gifts to her niece and nephew when she visited.

"Let me have it," Gregory demanded, snatching it out of her hands. He flipped the cover open, surprised to find a journal, written entirely in French. "Whoa...this is Grandfather's, I think."

"Really?" Cassandra asked, her curiosity outweighing the hesitation to touch it.

"I can't read this. It's in French."

Cassandra grinned. "Ha, then you should have paid more attention to your lessons. Now let me have it back. _This_ is what I've been hoping to find all these years when you've been too lazy to help me explore."

Cassandra took the leather bound journal from Gregory's hands and skimmed over the pages, surprised to find it filled with words of anguish and despair, not memories of the very formal and reserved man who was extremely difficult to please.

"This is very...deep...," she whispered, distracted by the eloquent words, written in a bold, sweeping hand. "If this was Grandfather's...he was not a happy man when he was young. Not ever."

"Why?" Gregory asked suspiciously.

Cassandra glanced up at him, her eyes filled with sadness. She cleared her throat once, and began to read.

**# - # - #**

_"How long does a spider spend, waiting in a shadowy corner for his prey? There must be a number, a fraction, an average for the amount of his life he spends, simply waiting. Do not count the hours that he weaves his intricate web of deceit, nor the lonely, precise way in which he seeks a mate – for that in itself is lethal to the lone spider._

_This is not about love, or at least, it did not begin as such. My life, or much of it, was about prey._

_How long does a spider spend in the exact same position, not moving, not breathing (if in fact a spider breathes)? How long does he imagine it will take for his first bite of the captive, stunned and submissive? _

_Waiting, waiting, waiting._

_For far too long I lived the first story. Waiting for prey that never came. _

_Oh, I've killed. That was no longer the sort of prey I was seeking. My two stories are intertwined. There is the story of prey and there is the story of a search for a mate, the search that turned nearly lethal for me. The prey I speak of now is the one elusive woman that I wished to find who could ease my aching heart. In my dreams she would allow me to subdue her and claim her with gentle words and searching hands. _

_Rape, I would never consider, even in my frustrated youth. The thought turned my stomach even when I would think of the gift of release..."_

"Oh, I don't think I can read anymore," Cassandra said, wrinkling her nose. Her cheeks were flush with embarrassment, but Gregory pointed emphatically back to the book with a mischievous grin.

"Keep reading. This is just getting interesting!" he insisted.

Reluctantly curious, Cassandra cleared her throat again, found her place, and began anew.

_"That has never held appeal to me. I imagined when I found a woman who was willing to lie beneath me, willing, only willing, then I vowed to take from her all that she would allow, and give everything except my heart._

_My heart, that useless organ that kept blood flowing through my veins when I held a constant wish that it would cease. My heart, which survived a cruel rejection and the loss of a love so deep and dark that I never thought to overcome it. _

_I sought the creature, the abnormal woman who would willingly give her body to me, and found her in a most unlikely place. I had thought, once, a very long time ago that I had first found that woman in Christine. I foolishly trusted her, loved her, and she smashed my love back into my wretched face. She could not have done it more cruelly, yet I know that she did it with great regret. I have long since forgiven her. I love her still; I always shall._

_But the spider? He waited. He did not seek and expend energy searching for prey. It came to him in the willing form of a beautiful Southern miss on a hot August night. _


	2. Part I: A Growing Unease

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_**Part I – Awakening **_

**April, 1870 – Months after Opera Populaire closed it's doors forever and two months before France declares war on Prussia.**

There are times in life when a man, woman, or child's eyes are opened. Not in a physical sense, but in a a spiritual one. Revelations come and they affect different people in different ways. Men often weep when they look back on their life and find little pride in their accomplishments. Women often do the same, knowing that no one would ever fondly remember their achievements except for those who loved them.

When a child's eyes are opened, especially to the cruelty and hypocrisy of the world, then the shattered visage shows only confusion and perhaps some bitterness if the soul isn't strong enough to find courage in the face of the lesson. The child will change – adapt – in time, but those precious moments of innocence are gone forever.

Christine Daae had lost much of her innocence already, but as she eavesdropped on the de Chagny family, the remainder of it slipped away from her young heart. Uncertainty choked her feelings of safety away, although this was hardly her first indication of rough seas within the home where she had been a guest for the last few weeks.

"Mademoiselle Daae seems like a nice enough girl, son, but are you certain she is suitable for marriage? I hate to sound cruel, but her station is far below yours, and she seems far too fragile right now to make such a decision in her life," Raoul's father, Felix de Chagny was saying. "You know we would never impede your marriage plans if this was truly the woman you wanted to spend the rest of your life with, but have you even considered _her _feelings on the matter? She seems terribly confused. Not that I can say I blame her. This will be a terribly difficult situation for her to enter into."

Christine pressed her back against the wall outside the dining room door, unable to believe that they were again discussing her fate without her presence. She waited quietly for Raoul's response, his valiant defense, but none came. Her decision to join the de Chagny family for dinner had come too late to join them even for the first course. She had tried to put on her best face seconds before the murmur of voices had halted her entry.

"Since she's been here she has barely said a word, Raoul," his mother said gently. "Perhaps you should put thoughts of an engagement aside for the time being. You aren't much older than she is, but believe me dear, a few years of waiting would not hurt."

"Years! She's seventeen, Mother. Most girls are already married at that age," Raoul burst out.

"You said yourself she has been isolated inside that opera house for _ten_ years. Even if she has had a somewhat eclectic upbringing that is no excuse for her lack of social skills," Hyacinthe replied. "She isn't ready for the responsibility that marrying you would bring her. I'm afraid you would come to regret your hasty decision to marry her."

Christine could picture the look of disapproval and pity in Raoul's mother's blue eyes. Hyacinthe's words now hurt, truly hurt, even when spoken in such truth. Christine pressed a hand over her mouth, wondering what she was expected to do. Marrying Raoul was her only choice, wasn't it? Wasn't that the entire reason for the plot to capture Erik, so that she and Raoul could be together? Suddenly that plan seemed so absurd that she felt like laughing.

Their plan had destroyed the opera house. Madame Giry had rented a home in Paris and was recovering after taking in a great deal of smoke, as were many other people who had been inside during the fire. And Erik was gone. Thinking of him made her feel cold inside; made her want to weep. She had done everything that Raoul had planned with the managers. Erik had been drawn from hiding, though unexpectedly appeared on stage, and Christine had gone through with their plot without question. She had revealed him to everyone, and died a little inside at the humiliation she had caused him. She pushed the image of the betrayal in his eyes out of her mind.

"Christine has no guardian," she heard Raoul say, his tone filled with indecision. "Who will take care of her? I love her, and she loves me. Why can't I be the one who takes care of her? Why should we wait?"

"She has no guardian, and you should not appoint yourself that duty. It would be highly improper. If you truly want to help her then allow your father to assume that role," Hyacinthe replied softly. "In a few years, once this scandal has died down, then we will see if she has become more suitable. Marrying now will not solve your problems, and may in fact increase them. Do you truly want your future bride to be exposed to censure by the members of our society?"

Christine could detect a sound of frustration that was audible through the door, though the person was unidentified. Most likely Raoul, who was unaccustomed to not getting something that he wanted.

"No. No, I want her to be safe and protected. That's what I've always wanted," Raoul answered, his quiet tone indicating his disappointment.

"Then I will have the papers drawn up tomorrow, and place her into my care," the Comte stated firmly. "No more of this marriage talk. I will see if there is someone available to teach her about being a lady, and with any luck people will forget that she was an opera singer. With all this talk of war going on it is certainly likely."

Christine straightened away from the wall at the condescending tone, bristling at the implication that her past was tainted. She wondered why it was such a terrible thing for her to be a singer. Raoul had certainly not seemed to mind when he had first approached her after the debut, and no one had mentioned her career directly to her in the months that she had been here. It was always spoken of discreetly, behind her back, in these little snippets of conversation that she had managed to catch in recent weeks. If she'd had any idea they discussed her openly around the dinner table, she might have thought to attend more often. Now she imagined that these people were vicious hyenas, though it was a little unfair.

The de Chagny's had been nothing but respectful to her, and Raoul had been gentlemanly as always. It was true that she had barely said a word. In fact, they could have added that she rarely came out of her room, she didn't sleep, and perhaps that every moment she was alone Christine found herself crying.

Which was why she had dried her eyes tonight and ventured downstairs, only to find them discussing her as if she were a mad cousin that they could do with as they pleased. Anger flared in her, but she didn't know how to direct it. She certainly couldn't blame them for her unhappiness, but being around this family made her feel awkward and unworthy. They were so bloody reserved and proper that Christine felt stifled, almost as if she had no voice when she was with them.

It had been the same with Erik. He had commanded her to do something, and like an obedient mouse she had done it. That had always been her way, for as long as she could remember. The laughable memory of Carlotta calling her a spoiled diva could not have been further from the truth. If anything Christine felt her voice was submerged beneath the murky depths of water, drowned by those with louder, clearer voices who sought to protect her but were in fact doing nothing to save her.

Christine's eyes grew misty, reliving that night again and again. She had done it so often that she wondered if perhaps she had imagined some of the pain in his eyes. But no, it had been real.

"You were such a fool to believe I could ever help you Erik. Why did you choose such a stupid, cowardly girl?" Christine whispered, gripped with sadness yet again.

The pressure became too much. She could hear the servants clearing away the dishes in the next room, and imagined the de Chagny's already planning her pristine future, a process to turn a soiled opera singer into a perfect imitation of Hyacinthe de Chagny. The thought made Christine ill. She had tried too long and too hard to be perfect for everyone, and in the end no one had been pleased with her. Christine had disappointed everyone, and suddenly a complete lack of emotion flooded through her.

After her father had died she had felt this same emptiness, and only when the Voice in the night had come to her had it changed. Erik had been there for her, a comfort, a guidance that she had desperately needed. The guidance had changed, grown darker, until her innocent heart had suspected the sinister intent of a man unable to express his true desires. Erik was gone from her life; wasn't that the end she had wanted? Now the void had returned, and Christine knew that there would be no one to save her this time.

Raoul could not. He was sweet and kind, but he looked at her sometimes as if she were truly mad, and she craved something more. The idea of not marrying him was terrifying, but given that his family seemed to be against the union, she was uncertain of her future. Christine's fate hung in the balance of strangers, her wants overcome by the demands of those who loved Raoul more.

Did she even know anymore what she wanted? Perhaps she had once again allowed herself to be swept inside another's dreams. Bitterly she tried to remember if she had ever had any dreams of her own outside of singing.

Christine jerked upright as the door to the dining room opened, and Raoul stepped through, rubbing his apparently full stomach. He glanced down one side of the hallway but didn't see her, and continued straight ahead toward his father's study. Christine stood rooted to her spot in the hallway, knowing his parents would be coming out soon, but unable to leave.

What were the tumultuous thoughts in her mind? She could not so much as define the nagging feeling of dissatisfaction, nor the vague irritation she felt at Raoul and his parents for deciding her fate.

"You can't let him marry her Felix."

The voice of Raoul's mother broke into her thoughts. Christine edged behind a pillar in the elegant hallway outside the dining room, the sensation of her stomach dropping to her feet making the room sway. Being faced with the misgivings of his parents was one thing, but if they truly disapproved of the match then what was she to do? Raoul would be devastated to lose the support of his family, and Christine could not envision a life spent with them constantly blaming her for ruining his chances of social success.

"My dear, there is nothing we can do but wait. I had hoped his infatuation with her would cease once he succeeded in capturing her attention, but it looks as if our son has set his mind to marrying her. With the talk of war now, and Napoleon sticking his neck into the matters of Spain, a scandalous marriage will be nothing soon." Christine pressed her hands into the ridged column, her attention perking at the mention of the war. Declaration was imminent, so the papers said, and tensions were climbing higher. She wondered if Raoul would renew his commission, and what she would do if he left her with his parents while he went to war. The thought of living alone with his parents was numbing. Raoul's father rarely said anything – it was the narrow eyed glances that she received from his mother that kept Christine in her room for much of the time.

"I hate to say it, Felix, but that girl does not belong in our house. You should have set your foot down immediately. You could have at least sent her to your sisters in Perros-Guirec. She would no doubt have been more than happy to recapture her childhood," Hyacinthe said, her tone scornful now that her son was out of earshot. "My son is not going to marry an opera singer! I won't have it!"

"Calm down, my dear. There is nothing that can be done. Raoul is a grown man of twenty – five, and if you pressure him then there will be tension in our family for years to come." The door to the dining room was pushed open, and Christine watched as Felix stopped his wife before they joined Raoul in the study. He patted her hand affectionately and smiled. "Maybe we should allow Mademoiselle Daae to see that old ballet woman who has been sending notes."

"I will not allow more theater trash into my house!" the Comtesse cried out. "If my friends hear of this, I will never be looked upon in the same way! Felix!"

"I never said that she would have to come here," her husband replied mildly. "Raoul doesn't want her influenced by the old woman. Maybe we should let the girl go see her. The spineless wretch will do whatever this Madame Giry tells her to do -"

"Which is no doubt to marry the Vicomte and disrupt his wealth!"

"Hyacinthe -"

"No, Felix, I think what the papers are saying about this woman must be true! Madame Giry has conned the owners of the theater for years with this ghost nonsense, and now she has found a new benefactor with our family! She will try to blackmail us, and demand that we pay an exorbitant sum for her silence! No, I will not allow that woman near the girl," Hyacinthe declared vehemently. "Christine Daee I can handle. She's nothing more than a weak child. But I will not be intimidated or threatened by this old woman. She may send all the notes she wants, but if my son is truly going to marry this girl, then she is not going to come near our family."

Indignation sparked in Christine's stomach, and she glared at the Comtesse from behind the pillar. Madame Giry was not a thief, and how dare she accuse her of being one! Erik's mischief was his own, and she would give her word that Madame Giry had never stolen so much as a hairpin in her life. The Comte and his Comtesse continued to argue, turning Christine's heart darker with anger and misery. These people did not want her here. They did not want to release her to Madame Giry. And they did not want her to marry their son.

She'd become a prisoner yet again, with less hope for happiness than ever before.


	3. An Unwelcome Guest

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Erik knew the old saw about being careful what you wished for, but as he had rarely - if ever received anything he had wished for in his life, it held little meaning – until now. Yes, he had wished desperately for someone to love him, and he knew that Bernadette accepted him, even if it was only a mild toleration, but that was not exactly what he had been wishing for. Bernadette was feisty, opinionated, stubborn, and extremely strong-willed. Still he was more than grateful that she had risked hers and Meg's freedom to let him stay with them. 

However, living with Bernadette Giry and her young daughter was proving impossible. He'd lived with them at the opera house, yes, but never in such close quarters. When Bernadette wasn't glaring at him, Meg was hiding. Not that she needed to. When Erik wasn't in his room asleep he was roaming the underground tunnels of Paris, wondering why his life had gone so wrong.

Erik spent his days now in much the same way as he had before, mooning over Christine in the dark, alone, and being tended by a woman who regarded him with a suspicious eye if he so much as sneezed. He'd heard Meg whispering to her mother in the room they shared, begging her to get rid of him before the gendarmes came beating down their door. Or perhaps before he murdered them in their sleep.

The only reason he had stayed so long was that Bernadette had defended him. He loathed the thought of leaving to hide alone again, but he didn't know how much longer he could take living beneath Bernadette's roof without resorting to using his punjab lasso. The woman was driving him crazy.

So with the idea of returning to his old home underneath the Opera Populaire, Erik had set up a surveillance of the place. He had noticed that the frequency of the gendarmes' rounds had decreased steadily over the past weeks, until they hardly bothered with the place at all now. Erik had also observed signs that others, most likely beggars and the homeless, had also somehow found entrance into the abandoned theater, and were using the lobby for shelter. If Paris's poor had been the only ones using his beloved theater, Erik wouldn't have begrudged them the roof over their heads. But he had also noticed someone else – someone conspicuously better dressed and who took great pains to remain surreptitious in his activities.

Confident that he was no longer in danger of capture by the gendarmes, Erik had spent several days hiding in various spots in the cellars of the opera house watching the man, and trying to figure out what he was up to. More importantly, Erik was trying to ascertain when the man would be finished with whatever it was he was doing so that Erik could move back into his former home.

If Erik had to guess, then his unwelcome visitor was looking for the "ghost's treasure" that the idiots at the Epoque had promised the public. Hopefully the person would lose interest in his search, or in the case of those before him, lose the courage to stay in the ghost's home.

Erik's patience was rewarded when he saw the man enter through the Rue Scribe, and Erik could only imagine how he had found the entrance and the secret to opening it. This was the sixth time the visitor had ventured below the opera house since Erik had set up his surveillance. Sometimes Erik watched him, and sometimes he left him to his devices, confident that there was nothing of value left for him to discover.

With mounting impatience, Erik observed that this time was going to be different. The man had spent previous visits walking through Erik's rooms, sketching the layout, and studying with fascination the mechanics of the mirrored room. On arriving today he had gone straight to the center of it and proceeded to try and pry up the stone slab from the hidden chamber where the wealth of Erik's earnings were once kept. Annoyance flashed through him, but he did not move from his hiding space. The thief would need more than just his strength to open the vault, and Erik had no worries about him learning the secret to it.

It was, however, getting rather old to hide in his own home while a thief was attempting to steal what Erik had worked hard to steal for himself.

"It's useless, you know," Erik found himself saying after watching impatiently for over two hours. Really, from his uncomfortable space on a ledge above the mirrored room, it had grown too difficult to hold his tongue.

The thief spun in the direction of his voice, swinging around quickly and nearly dropping his lantern.

"Who is there?" he demanded, not looking up.

Erik pitched a laugh across the room, and the man turned around again. "I have the ghost's treasure, my friend, so you may go back to your world above and tell them it is gone. I acquired it long before you ever ventured down here."

Francois Paumard held his lantern up, his eyes focusing on the gap of space between the top of the mirrored room and the ceiling. He could make out the dark figure of a man standing some ten feet above him on a ledge, though the light was not bright enough to reach his face.

"Who are you?"

Erik laughed softly, bracing one shoulder against the alcove's wall. "Perhaps I am the ghost, monsieur. Wouldn't that be quite the predicament to find yourself in?"

Francois scoffed loudly. "You're no ghost, and I'm beginning to doubt there was ever a treasure. The only truth those fools at the newspaper printed was that someone lived in this filthy cave before the fire."

Erik closed his eyes and counted silently to himself, calming the urge to snap at the man. He could not reveal himself here as the ghost. The last thing he needed was another insurgence of interest in his life or his home. He realized that the only way out of this situation, now that he had made the mistake of opening his mouth, was to pretend he was a treasure hunter himself.

"The Phantom's fortune is gone, and I have claimed this place for my own. You may leave, Monsieur," he said stiffly.

Francois shifted slightly, unwilling to give up so easily. The treasure of the ghost had intrigued him, as it had many thieves, and if this man had figured out how to unlock the secrets to the vault, he might be willing to share those secrets. Even if he did not earn a dime from this, at least he would cease to be frustrated with the puzzle that had led him to this point.

"May I ask what you found?" Francois asked hopefully. "I would dearly love to know what the man was hiding down here, and how you discovered it."

'_Something you would not care to see, and you will never know more than I wish'_, Erik thought to himself. His hand pressed slightly on the hidden panel behind him that would lead him back to the tunnels, but he knew he could not risk revealing that secret. The man was inquisitive, which also meant he was dangerous. After the second invasion of his home Erik had moved his money and the rest of his belongings to Madame Giry's house. He was eager now to get his own home back, and this man was what stood in his way.

"Money, Monsieur, and lots of it," he finally answered. "You can rest assured it is in a safe location. The chamber below you is empty and now sealed, and there is nothing left down here but ink and candles. Surely not of value to a thief such as yourself."

"Ah, but if this place is abandoned, then I am not a thief," Francois said lightly. He stared up at the man for several moments, his mind calculating the height, and realized there were no rungs stuck into the wall for a ladder. "How did you get up there?"

Erik glared down at the man. "I flew, as a bird, Monsieur. Would you kindly vacate this cave? I have permitted your invasion for far too long."

"My name is Francois," he offered, instead of making a move to leave. "I don't generally work under these circumstances. I'm no grave robber."

"Nor am I," Erik retorted, his patience slipping down another notch.

"I am a jewel thief," Francois said proudly. "The finest in Paris."

"Then what are you doing sniffing around here? The Phantom had no jewels." A lie, but none that would trouble Erik's sleep at night. There had been much more down here than money, so much more that if the man ever learned the truth, he would likely weep.

"Ah, but with the money that he was rumored to have hidden, I could retire permanently." Francois stepped closer to the wall on which Erik was standing, and again tried to shine the light to reveal his features. There seemed to be a small opening, just wide enough for a man's frame, and that man was slinking further back into the shadows. "To satisfy my curiosity, how much money did you find?"

"Enough for you to have retired permanently," Erik replied drolly, though he was slightly amused, "depending on your lifestyle, of course."

Francois slapped the dust from his thighs, furious with the feeling of failure, though he had been doubtful that he would find the treasure in the first place. Whoever this man was, he'd gotten here first, and it had been obvious to him that _someone_ had been here after his second or third trip below the theater.

"Then I offer my congratulations, Monsieur. Perhaps you would care to accompany me back to the surface?"

Erik stared at the man for several moments, wondering if it was a trick or merely a courtesy that normal people extended to one another. Before he could answer the man took to patting himself about the waist and ankles.

"See here, I am unarmed. Come down from there. Perhaps I will even buy you a drink, since you are the victor. I am a thief, but I am an honest one."

"I will join you near the front door in a moment," Erik said, and waited until the man left the mirrored chamber before he exited through the passageway behind him. He stopped at a small supply closet on his way and retrieved a fedora and an extra cloak, pondering his strategy to leave this place alone and keep it's secrets intact. The man had been down here far too many times, but Erik had no urge to kill him.

This Francois was merely an annoyance, but enough of a threat that Erik knew he could not have ignored him any longer. Perhaps with the insistence that the Phantom's home was truly valueless, then the curiosity would cease.

Erik navigated his way to the front of his home through paths that were located on the outside walls, and rapped lightly on the door.

Francois opened it, surprised to see a man standing there with his hand extended and his head turned away.

"May I see your lantern?" the man asked.

Francois handed it to him with a shrug, then gasped when the man tossed his lantern right into the canal of water that ran past the stairs.

"Well, why did you do that?" Francois demanded, unable to see anything. Blindly he groped for the door frame, wondering if he was about to be thrown in as well. "Monsieur?"

"I wish to keep my identity secret," Erik responded quietly. "I am also a thief, you see. A thief who...," _should be dead_, "...works for someone important. If you know what is good for you, then you will cease your visits to this place."

Francois swallowed nervously at the coldness of the man's tone, but he quickly agreed to never return. His eyes adjusted to the darkness slowly, the gray glimmer of water visible to his right. Francois felt rather than saw Erik as he brushed past to lead the way out, and he instinctively took advantage of it. He was overjoyed to find that he had been rewarded for his pains after all. Then at Erik's direction, he placed his hand along the wall and began to follow him back to the world above.


	4. The Ring of Truth and Loss

# - # - # - #

Christine stretched beneath the blankets, trying to determine if she might possibly feel signs of illness. A fever, an indisposition, a slight cough - anything would have been welcomed to keep her from facing Raoul's parents. She had gone straight upstairs after overhearing their conversation, sat near her window for half the night, and dreamed of Erik for the other half. A disturbing dream in which he had gotten to his knees and begged her to save him, to love him, and in return she had turned away from him again.

The cruelty gnawed at her stomach, and she had woken up in tears, wishing she could have changed everything. Christine couldn't be certain she would have chosen Erik. She barely knew him, after all. Whether that was her fault for only taking what he offered her and not trying harder to get to know him as a person, or his fault for remaining withdrawn and mysterious, she didn't really know. He had been, in her young mind, a commanding and powerful individual, someone who had never shown himself in need of something as basic as love. In the end he had shown her he needed it more than any person she had ever known, and she had shattered him. The dream had changed at the end, and Erik had become a gasping, dying man, still pleading for her love.

It seemed not even in her dreams could she release his pain. Only when she was awake could she change the memory, make him a stronger person who walked away from her, leaving her the one with the broken heart.

She continued to lie in bed, wishing for anything that would prolong the meeting with Raoul's parents, even though she had decided that there would be no more hiding within the walls of her room. If anything, she owed it to Madame Giry to show these people that she had nothing to hide nor to be ashamed of. Still, she couldn't help but fantasize about a twisted ankle or to suddenly faint when she crawled out of bed. There was nothing.

Eventually she dressed, went downstairs, and faced the coolness of the de Chagny's alone. Raoul had apparently become inebriated last night after going out with his friends, and lay upstairs abed with a raging headache. The irony of it alone was enough to make Christine weep.

_# - # - # - #_

The strand of pearls caught her eye, the luminescent glow drawing her to it with a wistful longing to touch something so beautiful and simple. A pearl, Christine thought, and not a diamond, would make a very lovely engagement ring. She studied them, holding her hand next to the deceptively delicate necklace and comparing her complexion to the lovely ivory colored beads. Her father had told her once the miracle of the pearl, how the oyster guarded its secret treasure beneath the deep ocean, and how fortune hunters would do anything to discover the bounty contained within such an unlikely place.

The diamond Raoul was currently inspecting seemed atrocious next to something so extraordinary as a single pearl.

"Raoul, what about this?" Christine asked, lifting the necklace for his inspection.

His disinterested gaze fell upon it momentarily before he turned back to the large diamond ring that the jeweler had given him. "Those are pearls, hardly appropriate for a de Chagny's engagement ring."

"But they are more beautiful," she said wistfully, looking down into the glass case for a ring that she could use as an example. "Papa always said -"

"And you can get this in a smaller size?" Raoul asked the jeweler, cutting her off. "Christine has very delicate hands."

"Yes, of course," the jeweler replied, giving her an approving smile.

Christine let the pearls fall back to their mannequin display, recognizing Raoul's dismissive tone. Depression instead of joy flooded through her as the purchase of one diamond engagement ring was transacted. With one last regretful look at the pearls, she imagined an elegant simple band with one pearl sitting atop, encrusted with much smaller diamonds – or perhaps no diamonds at all.

Christine wondered if Raoul knew, or even suspected what his parents really thought of her. At breakfast this morning neither one had offered more than a cool greeting, and Raoul had arranged this trip downtown to make up for being absent.

If his parents only knew that he was really purchasing her an engagement ring – ironically another secret engagement, they would be irked.

Movement outside the window drew her attention, and she noticed two well dressed gentleman standing outside, ribbing each other and in the midst of what seemed to be a great joke. They were looking at Raoul, but all too soon their eyes shifted to her, and one of them winked. Christine blushed and turning toward Raoul, tapped him upon the shoulder.

"Do you know those men?" she whispered. "They are staring at us."

Raoul glanced at her, then out the window, and his lips broke into a strained smile. "I went to school with them."

Once the gentleman saw that Raoul had spotted them, they entered the shop, their masculine laughter making her nervous as they crowded close and began to pat Raoul heartily on the back. Raoul introduced the tall one who had winked at her as Leon, and a rather womanish looking fellow with hair longer than Raoul's as Oliver.

"We knew someone was keeping you occupied these days!" Leon nearly shouted with laughter. He raked appreciative eyes over Christine as she nearly hid behind Raoul's back, then offered her another wink. "Mademoiselle, if I had known such a beauty as you existed in the opera house, I would have spent more time enjoying the arts!"

To Christine's surprise, Raoul only smiled at the men, and drew her in front of him. "Yes, she is the very picture of loveliness, isn't she?"

"I'll dare say you are expensive to keep, my lady. If you ever tire of Raoul's affections, I happen to be wealthier of title and of fortune," Oliver said, earning a chuckle from Leon.

Christine stiffened, and she turned wide, questioning eyes back to Raoul, but he did not appear offended.

"You are damned sorry to have missed her, gentleman, but I believe she has made her choice," Raoul said, not contradicting the belief they obviously held of her status in his life. "We were just in here to see about a brooch my mother needed reset. If you will excuse us. I will see you both this evening at the club."

Raoul shut the door to the shop and placed Christine's arm in his, muttering beneath his breath at the insensitivity of fools. Christine said nothing, anger slowly seeping into her as the implications of that meeting began to set in. Those were his friends, and they assumed she was nothing more than his whore. She glanced suspiciously at Raoul, wondering if perhaps he might already have one, then turned away, troubled by her thoughts.

"Is something wrong?" Raoul asked obtusely, noticing her tight lips and stiff posture.

_Yes_. "No," she said.

"You look upset," Raoul said quietly.

"I'm fine Raoul," she replied, forcing a cheerful tone to her voice. She even managed a smile, which she certainly did not feel.

He stared at her for a moment then seemed to shrug off any justified doubt. "You do understand why we must keep this secret, don't you?"

"Of course, Raoul," Christine said woodenly.

"Then why do you look so...sad? Your life is about to become perfect," he murmured, and kissed her hand as only a gentleman would do on a busy Paris street. "Everything that you've ever wanted is about to come true."

Christine said nothing as his statement slowly sank in. Everything that she had ever wanted? When had she ever declared a desire to be married into the aristocracy? Marrying Raoul came with certain obligations, limitations that she had never realized until recently. He called them privileges, but to a girl who hardly felt comfortable even at the smallest social gatherings, the idea of what he would be asking her to do was nightmarish. There was a very large difference between singing on a stage and forcing your way through polite conversation with people who thought you inferior to them.

So was that what she really wanted? To become like Raoul's mother? Was that what would please Raoul? Could she do it if it was?

"Your parents don't like me," she said softly. "Is it only because they don't approve of your marrying an opera singer?"

"Former opera singer," Raoul muttered, "and the less said about that the better. We should keep that to ourselves if it is at all possible."

A spiral of resentment and hurt curled around Christine's heart. "You are ashamed of me, aren't you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I would never be ashamed of you!" Raoul exclaimed, giving her a look of annoyance.

"Then you won't mind if I tell your friends the truth?" she asked quietly.

"Come, Christine," Raoul responded, "don't make a scene."

"Why didn't you tell them who I was? If I am to be your father's ward..."

"Who told you that?" he asked abruptly.

Christine bit her lip, realizing she had given herself away. "I..."

"I had hoped my father would keep it to himself a bit longer," he said after her lengthy silence. "Of course, it may not be necessary if I can convince them that we should marry now."

"They shouldn't have to be convinced."

"Don't make it sound so treacherous, Christine." Raoul stopped her outside of a cafe where the scent of coffee filled the late afternoon air. He was handsome, such fine features, such a wonderful man. He was safe and everything that she had ever thought she wanted. Then why was she feeling this disquiet in her heart, this uncertainty? Why couldn't he tell his parents and friends the truth? He seemed to be as afraid of disobeying them as she had been of disobeying Erik. Well, she had done her part. She had given up the opera, Erik, and now it seemed the Giry's. What was Raoul willing to give up – or at the very least fight for? His answer disappointed her, and she battled back tears. "My family has been members of the French nobility for a very long time. You have to understand that. They will come to accept you in time, my love."

"You should have told your friends that I was not...not...your...mistress," she whispered, blushing as she said the word. "What will they say when they know the truth? They will think that I was your...and that you made me your wife!"

"Nonsense! They were just having fun at my expense," Raoul said dismissively. "I will have a talk with them this evening when I see them, if it will make you feel better."

"Yes, thank you," she said primly.

"Now, I want to see how this looks on you," Raoul said, his voice low with pride as he pulled the ring out and placed it on her finger.

The diamond was beautiful, although sterile looking against her skin, making her hands seem paler just by it's icy glow. Before she had a chance to truly gaze at it, he had slipped it off and placed it in her hand.

"Perfect," he murmured. "Now keep that somewhere safe. I will tell you when the time is right to show it off, my love. You must trust me on this."

Christine allowed him to kiss her cheek, her heart feeling unnaturally heavy within her chest, before turning away in the direction of the carriage.

_# - # - # - #_

"What made you become a thief?" Erik asked, keeping a close ear to judge the man's distance behind him. At most, he was lagging eight or nine feet, his movements unsure whereas Erik knew the place intimately in both darkness and light.

"The same reason any person steals," Francois grunted. "I needed food to survive as a boy. It was the interest of other things that turned me to jewels. And you? Does your employer pay well?"

Erik laughed, "Oh, yes. Very well indeed."

"And what is it you steal?"

"Anything I can find, Monsieur. I am an opportunistic thief. Granted, I only take what I want or need, but I see no real harm in that. I don't suspect that you do either."

"Ah, no. I've never stolen from anyone who didn't have it coming," Francois answered, slowing even more as the path curved around. The man in front of him appeared to have no problems navigating his way to the surface, a fact which irritated Francois, as he was at a great disadvantage. It was his turn to become wary, in the darkness with a man who hid his identity. He attempted to learn more about the man through questions that were only answered by clipped, unhelpful sentences. "I have friends in the servant class. They keep me well informed of who could afford to lose a gem here or there. These upper class gentry have no need of half of the things they own. What good is a beautiful necklace on a duchess with sagging jowls? She would be better suited to adorning her ears with something that would detract the attention away from what time has done to her. Of course, as a thief yourself, you already know this"

"So you only steal from ugly, old women?" Erik asked, amused.

Francois chortled. "No, but they are often the most deserving! My friends in the servant class complain about the cruelest employers. I frequently choose to target them. It takes far less research and guesswork out of whom I should steal from."

"Have you ever stolen from the de Chagny family?" Erik asked, the words coming out before he could stop them.

"Ah, but the Comtesse is not ugly," Francois said pleasantly. "She is beautiful, and I've never heard anyone say a word against her. She is gentry class and struts with all the pompousness that well bred ladies should, but she knows her place. Too bad her son has forgotten his."

Erik nearly tripped at the thief's words, but managed to keep moving forward. Affecting a disinterested snort, he asked, "What do you mean by that?"

"The infamous Mademoiselle Daae, of course. The servants talk you know, although getting anything from the household staff at the de Chagny estate has proven difficult. The rumor is not hard to believe at all. His parents are unhappy with the match, but they will not disown him for it." Francois opened his mouth to speak again, when a thought struck him. "Why the interest in the de Chagny's?"

Erik repressed the defensive words that welled up inside of him, and continued moving. "I merely asked if you had stolen from them. Given their connection to this place now, it would have been humorous."

"Oh. Well, no. I have never even considered them as targets. I've seen the Comtesse's jewels though, and they are fine indeed," Francois murmured, giving a whistle of appreciation at the memory of Hyacinthe de Chagny in a yellow silk dress. "Very find indeed."

Erik rolled his eyes, wondering how old his intruder might be. If his wayward thoughts ever went in the direction of Raoul's mother, he would drown himself immediately.

"Have you stolen from them, Monsieur?" Francois asked Erik.

"From whom?" Erik asked obtusely.

"The de Chagny's, of course," Francois replied, grateful when they finally found the stairs and began the ascent. It was getting rather cold down there, and he missed the lantern his companion had tossed into the lake as it had provided his ungloved hands with warmth. "Have you ever stolen from them?"

"Ah, no. I do not steal from families," Erik said abruptly. "I take from...others..."

Francois frowned to himself. This did not make sense, unless he was speaking of museums and galleries. He'd tried that before and quickly earned prison time at Paris's finest, and never wanted to experience it again. "Do you -"

"Shhh...someone is coming...," Erik whispered. He had intended to send the man out through the trap in the stage, parting ways with him before his face could be revealed in daylight. They were past the first basement when he'd heard the sound of voices and footsteps.

Francois stopped as he nearly collided into the man's back. He held his breath a moment until he heard them.

"It sounds like soldiers, Monsieur."

"Yes," Erik said grimly. Perhaps this had all been planned, and he'd been too blind to see it. Erik knew that he had to disappear immediately before he could be found. He was grateful to be on his home ground and he had no trouble in the dark locating the release that would drop him back down to the second cellar.

Francois froze as a gendarme opened the trap above his head and jumped through, landing on his feet and pointing his rifle at him.

"Spy! I have found the spy, Captain!"

"What are you talking about? I most certainly am not a spy!" Francois protested. "I am only here in search of the Ghost's Treasure. This man will vouch for me," he finished, turning to Erik for corroboration.

Francois was shocked to find himself quite alone in his predicament.


	5. A Fiery Madame

Hope you're enjoying! Remember to review! No Erik here, but I promise, he's lurking.

* * *

Bernadette Giry squared her shoulders as the de Chagny's butler regarded her with a dour expression. This was her second visit to the estate in as many days, and she had been told yesterday that Christine was out visiting the Vicomte's relatives, now the man was telling her the exact same thing. Bernadette was nobody's fool. If Christine had known of Bernadette's previous visits she would have penned her a note. At the very least, she would have answered the notes that had been sent regularly from both Meg and Bernadette. Since the night of the fire Christine had only written twice, and each note had been brief, with no real news of her state of mind or her welfare. 

Bernadette was growing worried, though she had thus far kept her thoughts to herself. The last thing she needed was to give Erik a reason to interfere in the matter, but Christine had been her charge for a long time, and the fire had not changed that. Every attempt to contact her had been met with silence, and she feared for the girl's future. If Raoul de Chagny had been truthfully in love with her, he would have married her by now. Already a cloud threatened Christine's reputation by her presence at the de Chagny estate. Why no one else could see it was beyond Bernadette, but she was eager to learn the truth while Erik was involved in matters with his intruder once again.

"I will see Mademoiselle Daae at once, Monsieur. She is here, and I will not leave until I have spoken to her," Bernadette said, eying him staunchly. "Or if the Comtesse is receiving this morning, I will be glad to speak with her."

"That will be impossible. I have told you, they are all visiting relatives," the butler informed her. "If you will but leave your calling card, I am sure that someone will send you a note informing you of an appropriate time to call."

Bernadette placed her hands over her hips and glared at the man in the same manner that had intimidated ballet girls all across Paris. "Mademoiselle Daae remains my charge, and if you do not allow me to speak with her immediately to reassure myself of her welfare, I will summon a gendarme to hear the reason why."

The butler stared at her coldly, but he stepped away from the entrance when he heard the Comtesse subtly clear her throat behind him.

"That won't be necessary, Madame...Giry, am I correct?"

Bernadette curtsied as custom demanded, but her sharp eyes took in everything from the top of the Comtesse's coiffed head to the lace dusted hem of her elegant dress.

"Madame la Comtesse," Bernadette addressed her stiffly. She shot the butler an unkind look from the corner of her eyes as she rose and walked past him, annoyed that the Comtesse stood over her by several inches. "Please forgive the intrusion, Comtesse, but I am here to see Christine Daae."

"As my servant informed you, she is out visiting with relatives," Hyacinthe lied smoothly. Christine was out this time, true, but the meeting of relatives had been delayed indefinitely. Unless she could get Felix's spinster sisters on the Brittany coast to take the girl, then Christine would remain a secret for as long as it was possible. At the very least she would only be a rumor on the tips of tongues in Paris if Hyacinth had anything to do with it. "Please, Madame Giry, won't you have a seat?"

Bernadette straightened her spine and raised her chin, recognizing the disdain in the other woman's eyes. She knew what the hypocritical upper class thought of theater people. They were good enough for entertainment, but were not welcome as guests in their homes. Bernadette gave a slight shake of her head. "Thank you, but no. I would not dream of taking up your time, Comtesse. I am here only for Christine."

"Well, as I said, she is not here," Hyacinthe replied carefully. "Is there something I can do for you? Perhaps something you...need?"

It was said with only the slightest hint of suspicion, but with a tone that Bernadette had unfortunately grown used to over the years. People in positions of power said things cautiously around her, finding her untrustworthy, and all of it could be tied back to Erik. The managers had never trusted her – not even Monsieur Poligny, even though he had known that there was more going on than there appeared. Bernadette met the Comtesse's eyes, seething at the insinuation that she was there for anything less than concern for Christine's welfare.

"When Christine returns, I trust you will inform her that I called?" Bernadette said in a barely civil tone, striving to suppress her anger at the insufferable woman before her. "I am the only mother that child has ever known, and I will not relinquish my hold on her. Not even to allow her to meld into this...family."

The Comtesse drew her head back but didn't respond, insulted by the crass woman before her. The ballet mistress's sharp gaze raked over the Comtesse once more, as Bernadette refused to be cowed by the woman's superior social position.

"You must understand my position, Comtesse. Christine is like my own daughter, and I know very well what moves her. She is easily influenced by those whom she admires, and she tries to please everyone. I want to know for myself that she is well, and that this life is truly the best thing for her. Do not think you will be rid of me so easily. I am not a young girl, and you will not mold me to your conventions. Good day, Madame la Comtesse. I will trespass on your hospitality no longer."

Bernadette turned and swept out the open door, eager to be away from the oppressive, cold feeling that the Vicomte's mother had given her. Christine would not survive easily in this home, and likely she was unaware of the degree of hostility she faced if she married Raoul. Bernadette felt her insides twist, knowing she was caught in the middle of something she had no wish to be forced to choose sides on.

Erik slept beneath her roof, hidden from the world again as she had done for him before, and Christine was relinquished to the care of these unfeeling, pompous relatives of Raoul de Chagny's. Bernadette knew that the boy might love her, but he would not stop his mother from forcing Christine to adapt. Something that the girl would not do well.

But what could she do? If Erik suspected that she had been trying to stay in contact with Christine, he did not say. Of course he didn't say anything. If she or Meg saw Erik during daylight hours it was purely accidental, and during the night he remained in his room. His pacing kept her awake and fretful. Like a lion in a cage once more, he needed his freedom but could not go back to his life before the fire. In truth, Bernadette much preferred his presence now than she had in the past, when she never knew if she was being watched or spied on.

The boy she had rescued from the fair had turned into a bitter, hard man. Bernadette had long wanted him to be something more, to show a glimmer of his talent to the world, instead of falling deeper into misery and anger. It was easier now to live with him, when it was obvious he had abandoned all hope of forcing the world to bend to his whims. It was almost as if he'd given up, but he remained a silent, sullen guest in their home. Meg was terrified but did her best not to show it, and Erik avoided her at all costs. Still, Bernadette knew that something needed to be done about Christine. She could not allow her to marry that boy if her life would become a living hell afterwards. No amount of money or social position would compensate her for that.

Taking a breath as she approached her own house, she realized that it would be very difficult to tear Christine away from the de Chagny's. But at the very least she could be convinced by Christine herself that this was what she truly wanted. The problem, however, was that Christine had never known what she wanted.


	6. Invitation

* * *

The gendarmes had drug the accused man out of the cellar into the lobby where the lengthening spring days better illuminated their work. Erik listened to the words and pleas of the man he'd abandoned to the gendarmes from his position in the alternate staircase just under the mezzanine. Guilt, an unpleasant and unexpected emotion, plucked at Erik's conscience, but he did his best to ignore it. Francois did not deserve capture and imprisonment, but Erik had spent far too much of his life protecting himself to even think of trying to save this man. He hadn't even been certain it wasn't a trap until the questioning had begun, the loud voices of the gendarme Inspector ringing throughout the rock-hewn cellars. 

"The Spaniards or the Prussians! For whom do you work, Monsieur?" the Inspector demanded.

"I work for no one! Please, Inspector! I am French! I am loyal to the Emperor!" Francois declared vehemently. "I was looking for the Ghost's Treasure! Please - there was a man with me! Did you not see him?"

"Officer, did you see another man with him?"

"No, Sir. He was alone when I found him," the questioned man replied.

"I am telling you the truth! My name is Francois Paumard. I am a fortune hunter! I have not left Paris in close to ten years! I tell you, I am loyal to her!"

Silence reigned for several agonizing moments until at last Erik cracked the door slightly, then stared down at the young man kneeling on the floor with his hands bound in front of him. The Inspector taunted Francois by walking a slow circle around him, a superior smile of disbelief on his face.

"So you were not looking for the secret entrances to Versailles?"

Erik closed his eyes and suppressed a curse. There were two tunnels leading to the Chateau de Versailles that he thought had remained forgotten. He'd seldom used them, as they were rather confining paths that only ran from the Palace to the Opera. He really had no idea why they went to the Opera. He could not imagine Marie Antoinette trying to fit her court skirts through the narrow path. If anything, they should have taken her to a place of safety.

Of course, they were not the only tunnels leading to or away from the Palace. If the gendarmes thought Francois Paumard had intended to find those other entrances, he was in deep trouble.

"I didn't know there were entrances," Francois denied.

"Well, if you are a fortune hunter, as you so quaintly put it, then perhaps you were after something -"

"No!"

Erik could detect fear in the captive's voice, and regret stirred heavily within him. The gendarmes were paranoid these days, believing everyone to be a spy. It was one of the reasons he had stayed away from the Opera. Grim faced, he listened as the questioning grew worse, nearly brutal. They would begin beating him soon, most likely, if he did not give them the correct answers. More soldiers entered the theater, their rifles trained on the defenseless, sweating young man.

There was nothing to be done. If Erik was caught it would be instant death for them both, and foolishness on his part for attempting to make the situation any better. Francois stood a better chance on his own if he could continue to feign ignorance, though Erik was angry with himself for not preventing this. No one deserved this, not friend, foe, or stranger.

He mentally placed himself in Francois's position for only a moment, and panic slid across his stomach. This was what Christine had wanted for him – or had she been too naïve to realize what would have occurred?

Thinking of her, and her bloody intentions fueled his quiet anger. Absently he reached into his pocket, his fingers grasping only fabric where before there had been a plain gold band.

"Where...," he whispered to himself, a spasm of fear touching his heart. He felt again, and there was nothing. Christine's ring was gone.

Erik stared blankly at Francois for a moment, almost immediately he recalled the seemingly casual touch, and knew he had not dropped it. Someone else may well have been fooled into believing it was their own fault for losing something so precious. Not Erik. He could count on one hand the number of people who had ever willingly touched him without intent to strike.

Francois had taken Christine's ring, and even as Erik had that thought, the Inspector lifted Francois to his feet by the neck.

"We will see if your tongue becomes looser at Conciergerie."

Erik watched Francois's face twist in anger, hate burning in his eyes right along with the fear. Francois took a defiant stance, a challenge written into his slightly suspended body.

Somehow Erik did not think getting Francois to the prison was going to be an easy task for the Paris gendarmes.

# - # - # - # -#

The stench inside the lobby of the opera was now almost unbearable. The unwashed bodies of the homeless were an assault to his senses, and as much as he felt pity for them, there was sadness at the lack of respect for the beauty of the Populaire. Erik thought it ironic that these people would have been turned away had they wanted to watch a performance, even if they had somehow found the money to attend. Now they slept wherever they could, and he'd been startled to see one man urinating on a column. They seemed disinclined to venture downstairs, many of the poor a superstitious lot that believed the tales of the opera ghost.

Erik followed the round contours of the wall in the lobby, until he heard the Inspector giving orders to his men.

"Take him into the stables. We haven't any room on the prison cart at the moment. I'll send one back for you, just make sure he doesn't give you any trouble," the Inspector said. "If he does, shoot him."

"I am not a spy!" Francois insisted again, his tone desperate as two men grabbed him by the arms and hauled him toward the stable. Light was now beginning to fade, an advantage to a man who'd spent his life in darkness.

Making certain only two guards would be watching the prisoner, Erik waited until the Inspector and his other soldiers left, then crept into the stables.

Francois was sitting in the pass through, his hands tied behind his back and around a post. One of the guards had already gone outside to enjoy a smoke, and the other had found the locked door to the tack room and was eager to acquire new leather. Erik had created trap doors in several stalls, wanting to be able to have a wide variety of horses to choose from when he needed one.

Francois just happened to be sitting in front of one of those stalls.

The only problem now was that the grooms usually ignored the rustle of straw, and now the stalls were empty. A slight sound, the shift of straw beneath feet, and he could be discovered. There was also the problem of opening the stall door without one of the guards seeing, or Francois alerting them by his surprise.

"Damn door," the guard muttered, giving the door to the tack room a swift kick. When that failed to open it, he found the blacksmith's box and removed a rasp, attempting to pry it open. "Open damn you!"

"What's all the yelling?" his companion called from outside.

"Mind your own business!"

Moving swiftly as they continued to bicker, Erik slid his hand through the slats on the wooden stall door and clamped it over Francois's mouth.

"Don't move; don't even breathe," Erik whispered. He removed a knife from his waist, and pressed it against the man's back. "You stole from me, Monsieur. That was a big mistake."

Francois stiffened, tried to move his head, but Erik held him steadily.

"Listen closely. I will get you out of here, but you will return that ring to me. You will do it, or I will take it from your dead body. Do you understand?"

Francois nodded once, and Erik cut the ropes that bound his hands behind his back. Erik attempted to hold Francois against the bar, but Francois scooted out of his reach, then turned to look at him. Francois's face paled immediately when he caught sight of golden eyes, and a white mask partially hidden beneath a cloak.

"My God," he breathed.

"Not quite," Erik said grimly. "Give me the ring."

Francois was clearly so startled he could not move, and he continued to gape at the man inside the stall. "You're the Opera Ghost."

"The ring, Monsieur," Erik said in a low, deadly tone. "Give me her ring."

"Hey!"

Both men jumped as the guard shouted out and rushed forward. Acting quickly, Erik flung his arm over the latch of the stall and slammed it open just as the man was nearly upon Francois. The bang inside the stable was tremendous, and Erik knew the other guard would have heard the racket.

"Give me the ring," he shouted, stepping out of the stall.

Francois crawled backwards, unable to remember which ring the man might be talking about. The Ghost was tall, angry, and held a knife on him.

"Please, Monsieur..."

"What's going on in there?" the other guard demanded.

The darkness inside the stable was all that saved them, but the sound of a hammer being drawn back instilled fear in both men. Erik dove back into the stall as Francois raced out the other side of the stable, a shot echoing inside that jarred their ears. Moving quickly, Erik slid back into the tunnels, furious with himself for failing to retrieve the ring, blood lust in his heart at the thought of losing the only thing that Christine had left him.

"You had better hope the guards kill you, Monsieur Paumard," Erik said, as he resisted slamming his fist against the wall. "If I ever find you, you'll wish they had ended you quickly."

# - # - # - # - #

"Will you join us for dinner, Erik?," Bernadette asked through the door.

Erik was silent from within, but she knew he was there. He'd stomped up the stairs not an hour ago and she hadn't heard a peep from him since.

Bernadette scratched at the door softly until he opened it, staring at her with a rather irritated expression.

"No, I am not hungry," he mumbled.

"You must eat, Erik," she said gently.

Erik's jaw tightened, but he didn't say anything. Bernadette had offered him this same courtesy every night, but he had declined, preferring to remain in his room until they had finished eating. Erik had nothing to occupy himself with while they were awake, and he prowled through the house after dark, usually frustrated from loneliness and boredom.

"Did you find your intruder?"

"He was not hard to find," Erik answered after a long silence. He glanced at Meg who suddenly appeared behind her mother, then back to Bernadette. "I don't think he will be back anytime soon."

The silence in the hall became pronounced, and Bernadette cleared her throat twice. "Ah, may I ask why?"

"Why do you think?" Erik asked, his eyes narrowing at her. "Come, Bernadette, do tell."

"Erik, I was merely..."

Erik began to shut the door, angry with himself for accepting her invitation to live with them. It had been an impromptu decision, one which he needed to remedy. He stopped just short of slamming the door in her face, and glared at her. "Of course, I know what you think. Why should truth have bearing when it is easier to blame, to implicate me in matters you know nothing about?"

Meg watched in dismay as her mother placed her hand against Erik's door, stopping his movement to shut it, and glared at him.

"If you would tell me things, Erik, I would not have to assume the worst. Don't play the innocent man now. Not after everything that's happened. And don't you dare blame me for judging you, after all that I have done. If I judge you or demand answers it is only because I deserve the truth. You are as recalcitrant as an aging old man, with far less reason to be. I don't think you understand how far my neck will stretch if someone finds you here."

"No further than mine," Erik retorted. "Why don't you report me to the gendarmes? It will save you the trouble of worrying over your thin neck every night."

Bernadette touched her throat self consciously, biting back words that would injure him far more than anything he could ever say to her. Erik annoyed her greatly, and she suspected that she did the same to him, but living with him and getting to know him more as a man than a ghost, she found him to be just as bothersome as her husband. He expected things of her that he had no right to, avoided doing any semblance of chores himself, and spent the night making messes for her and Meg to clean in the morning. He was worse than a husband – and as much as she held on to hope that he would change, she feared the day would never come. Especially moments like now when a simple dinner invitation turned into a battle.

"Meg and I will be downstairs having dinner," she informed him, affecting a haughty tone. "If you wish to eat then I suggest you join us. I'm feeding your dinner to the dogs if you do not."


	7. A Loss of All Things

I've lost a tremendous amount of reviewers it seems. Hope you all are still out there! I should also mention that the ring Francois stole is a plain gold band, like in Leroux, and it is one that Erik gave to Christine, not Raoul's ring. I do tend to mix things from both Leroux and the movie on occasion (I am using Leroux's version of Erik's home as well. If you need an image, the 1925 movie is on Google video, and you _really_ ought to watch it, or at least read Leroux's novel!.). Hope that's okay.

**

* * *

**

The damn woman hadn't been lying. The plate which normally held his dinner, covered by a napkin and left on the table, was absent. Further inspection of the kitchen revealed that, although she might not have tossed his dinner to the dogs, she had done _something_ with it.

Erik was still standing there, scratching his head and wondering whether to laugh or start yelling when he heard Bernadette coming down the stairs. As he suspected, a gleam of satisfaction shone in her eyes as she entered the room.

"Looking for something?" Bernadette asked sweetly.

"Of course...not."

"Your dinner, perhaps?" she prompted, not batting an eye.

"If you meant to punish me, Bernadette, you may as well know I've gone without my supper before," Erik replied moodily.

Disappointment replaced her goading, as she struggled to find the words to make him understand it wasn't punishment. She would never do that to him, but it was time for Erik to change, to accept himself. The fire had not doused her hope for him – it had strengthened her resolve to make him a better man.

"I only wanted to share a meal with you, Erik," Bernadette said, keeping her tone even. "Is that so much to ask?"

Erik shrugged, obviously uncomfortable with her prodding, and wondering why she would want such a thing.

"You don't need to be overly civil with me. I'll be moving along soon enough," he mumbled. He didn't allow his gaze to meet hers, and so he did not catch the look of pain that crossed her features.

Bernadette turned to the pantry, busying her hands as she tried to think of a way to convince him to stay. Erik had been in her life for far too long to just let him go. His bitterness and anger had pushed her away, and she had allowed it, not knowing how to reach him. Her biggest regret was not being able to help Erik fight the demons that reigned inside him.

"Do you remember when you were about fifteen?" she asked, her tone tremulous as she brought up a past he had struggled so hard to forget. "When you first thought up this opera ghost business, you were still a child. I never approved of it, but there was so little I could do. The idea excited you, until you were nothing more than an apparition even to me. You seemed so proud of yourself somehow." Bernadette gave him a level look. "Why is that, do you think?"

"What do you mean by that?" Erik questioned warily.

Bernadette paused over a portion of bread that she was cutting, and gave him a secretive smile. "You were proud of yourself, Erik, admit it. What I never understood was _why_? Why take pride in such deception? You had the potential to be so much more, and I wanted to help you."

"Help me?" he echoed, pointing to his face. "How in God's name could you have ever helped me, Bernadette? The last I knew, alchemy was not in your repertoire."

"Oh, Erik." she stared down at her hands, blinking back tears. He was still so clueless to the ways of the world, so guarded and insecure. He never would see his potential on his own, and she blamed herself for never showing it to him when he was a younger man. "When you were fifteen, you decided that the Phantom needed an identity. Sly tricks were no longer enough. You could not allow yourself merely to be a ghost, but you also would not let the world see you. You came up with this..."

She turned, her hand sweeping from his feet to his head. "This apparition became your only identity. It consumed you. I remember the first night you appeared to me with this mask, this dark, dark clothing. The expression on your face of utter defeat and total defiance of the world. You turned your back then on me and everyone else."

"You don't know what you are talking about," he argued.

Bernadette braced her hip on the counter, a challenge written in her expression. "I know you, Erik. I have always known you, your thoughts, and your feelings. You try so damned hard to hide them, and the only thing you succeed in doing is making me want to scream because I don't know how to help you."

His gaze flickered away, "I never needed help."

"You need help and love more than any man I have ever met."

Eyes trained on the floor, Erik didn't agree or disagree. This was the Bernadette who had pushed him to learn to read better, who had painstakingly taught him everything that she knew of books and learning, and yes, even music.

Everything else he had taught himself, but it had been Bernadette who had pushed him when he was young and scarred from his past, terrified of his future. She had encouraged him and prodded, saying he needed to be smarter than everyone else to gain their respect.

"My parents...," he began hesitantly. He had not told Bernadette the truth, not completely, although he was sure she knew the basics of his troubled past. It was not hard to discern why a child with his unnatural looks would wish to hide for the rest of his life from the people who had raised him.

"Yes?" Bernadette asked in a soft whisper. "What about them?"

Shame clouded his features, and bitterness wept from his eyes. Even after all this time the words still hurt, still ached intrinsically in his heart. He'd never gained closure from leaving them, always wondered if things could have changed if only he'd had the courage to stay.

"I was born in Lille," he said quietly. "My parents hated me."

He was silent for several moments, and she turned back around and started preparing his dinner. "That is all you have to say? You were born in Lille, and they hated you? Surely you know more about your past than that, Erik."

"They were cruel, uncaring, and beat me at every opportunity. Is that what you wished to hear?"

"No. But I wish to know what you will share," she said gently.

"My...family name is...Jeunet," Erik said, barely able to get the sentence out. "My...f-father...was a tenant farmer. A lazy, worthless man who beat me and my mother."

"Fathers often do," Bernadette murmured.

"My parents soon found the benefit of having a child so ugly he could not be sent to school." Erik touched a small scar that remained on his chin, the result of being thrown against the barn just before being whipped. The punishment for stealing an egg was very serious, and that had been meted out by his mother.

Erik's mind was drawn to a flower filled meadow that had been the perfect place to forget he was different from everyone else in the world. "From the time I could walk, it was required of me to do every bleeding task that they did not care for: collecting eggs, milking the cows, feeding - when my father actually bought feed."

Erik smiled coldly. The irony was that he had loved those tasks, still young enough to believe that someday he might be praised for doing something right. They had never cared though, not once had there been kindness or pity from the mother who had birthed him, or the father who had sired him. They had never cared about anything, really, not the unproductive farm, the starving animals, or the appalling conditions. He had come to understand this in time, after a few years of life and seeing what other farms looked like.

"How old were you?" Bernadette asked patiently.

"Possibly four, no older when they sent me to live with the dogs or whatever animal would keep me warm at night. I had fleas, lice, other things. I was well on my way, I'm sure, to becoming a leper or having some other unfortunate condition, but I left when I was twelve. I never had a desire to return."

A lie, he thought, but not entirely. There had been times amongst the gypsies he had prayed for the cruel hand of his father rather than the laughter of a paying crowd. Of course, his father had ridiculed him as well. As long as Erik could remember there had been laughter, cruel, mocking laughter, and screams.

"Did something happen?" Bernadette asked, then added, "In particular?"

Erik shrugged slightly. "The boys in the village said I ought to seek out gypsies. That they could cure my face, because surely it was a gypsy who cursed me." Erik met Bernadette's eyes, seeing the familiar indignation as it worked it's way through her system. After all this time it still outraged her that she had found him locked away like an animal. Erik turned and sat at the small kitchen table, tracing his finger over the brocade pattern as he remembered the night he'd had hope stripped from him, then his freedom. "I stole my father's work horses, thinking I could offer them as a gift because I had no money. I thought if I returned normal, they would forgive me. My father caught up with me in the camp, and traded me for the horses."

Bernadette took a step towards him, then another, until she reached the table and sat across from him. Erik stiffened as she rubbed the back of his hand, the gesture startling him.

"I knew it wasn't pleasant," she whispered, "but I never imagined..."

"It's fine."

"No. It is _not._"

They sat in silence, tense enough not to pull away and disturb the connection. His hand relaxed under hers, but mostly it felt numb and cold, the touch foreign and terrifying.

"Was it wrong of me?" Erik finally asked, his strangled tone betraying the aloofness he wished to feel.

"Was what wrong?" Bernadette asked gently. His eyes closed, and he pulled away as his hand started to tremble. "Christine?"

Erik nodded, not meeting her gaze, afraid to see the truth. Afraid that he had become something that disgusted her, a person who no longer deserved pity, but hate. From Christine it had been gut wrenching. If Bernadette believed him evil, then he knew he was truly lost.

She touched his wrist, her grip surprising him.

"Love is never wrong," she whispered fiercely. "Never."

Bernadette crossed the room and returned, placing his plate in front of him. On impulse she smoothed the top of his head, forgetting for a moment the black hairpiece that covered his own thin, sparse hair. Erik flinched but did not pull away, allowing her to touch him but not welcoming further contact.

"Promise me that you won't leave," she said softly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Do not leave." She cupped his chin in her hand, forcing him to look at her. "You are as much a part of my family as Meg, as Christine. You belong with the people who love you."

"Meg and _Christine_ do _not_ love me," Erik replied, his face turning red.

"Then know that _I_ do, and for you to leave the only woman who cares would be a tragedy. Promise that you will stay. If we have to leave Paris...if we have to leave France. I choose your side, Erik. I always have."

"What about Christine?"

"Christine has her own life now. The life that she chose." She bent and pressed a dry kiss to his temple, then left the room.

A shuddering breath left him moments later, and he stared down at the plate with eyes that burned with tears. His stomach was tied into knots, and the thought of eating was enough to make him physically ill. A few moments later he set the plate outside on the porch, easy fare for a hungry stray dog.


	8. When Truth Shatters Hope

* * *

The ring burned her. It taunted her from the fine chain that held it between her breasts, winking at Raoul's parents from within the confines of her clothing throughout dinner and well into the visiting that took place around the small fire that chased away the chill of an April evening. Christine listened to the inane comments of Raoul's mother and father, wishing she had something to contribute to the conversation of redecorating the Blue Salon, instead feeling shut out and forgotten. Even Raoul looked fairly bored. Lost in his own thoughts across the room, he struck a regal pose that Christine wished still drew the breath from her body the way it once had. 

Something had changed between them since the fire. The tender romance that had blossomed was gone, replaced by Raoul's need to protect and cosset her. He regarded her as nothing more than a witless girl, and the only valiance he had ever shown her was in the fight against Erik. Raoul did not fight his parents, and he seemed even less inclined to make waves with his friends. Christine was still upset by Leon and Oliver's comments, the lecherous gleam in their eyes no different than those of the stagehands at the Opera.

"Christine?"

Raoul's voice snapped her attention away from staring into the flames, and she looked up into his warm, loving eyes.

"Take a walk with me?" he asked, his voice so low it did not interrupt his parents as they left through the veranda doors.

The torches the servants kept lit near the gardens helped to combat the moonless night. Christine and Raoul walked silently for a few moments, arm in arm, each lost in their own thoughts. Raoul stopped Christine and pulled her closer when she gave a slight shiver.

"I didn't give you a chance to retrieve your cloak. Are you cold?" he murmured.

"A little," she confessed, pretending to be distracted by the beauty of the gardens.

Raoul pulled her closer, and her eyes widened. "I should have said something to my friends today. I am sorry that I didn't."

"You promised that you would," Christine reminded him, but he didn't respond. A sinking feeling entered her stomach, and she moved out of his embrace. "Will you?"

"I really don't think it will help."

"Is it so unbelievable, then, that you would wish to marry me?" Christine asked quietly. "If these friends of yours think I am nothing more than your mistress, then what will they think if I do marry you?"

_"If?"_

Christine merely blinked at him. "I want to see Madame Giry."

"What? Christine, why would you suddenly want to do that?" Raoul asked, startled by her abrupt change of subject. She merely stared at him expectantly, a placid expression on her face that made him want to grind his teeth. "I haven't said anything about this yet, but Madame Giry is not a good influence for you."

"Why? Because she worked in a theater?"

"Yes, and because my father and I believe that she should have protected you better."

Raoul could tell that Christine knew precisely what he was talking about, _whom _he was talking about, but she refused to discuss Erik. It infuriated Raoul to find her so closed mouthed about the man who had tried to kill him and who had been mad with rage over losing her, but she had not said his name once, nor had she allowed herself to be badgered. Christine had a way of ignoring him, or hearing only what she wanted to hear, that Raoul found intolerable.

"Madame Giry raised me. She is honorable -"

"No, Christine, she isn't. If she were honorable she would have sent you to safety long ago. If she were honorable she would not have blackmailed the managers at the Opera," Raoul interrupted. "I forbid you to ever speak with the likes of her again."

"Forbid?" Christine gasped, "You forbid me to see her? What about Meg?"

"Mademoiselle Giry, Madame Giry, and anyone _else_ that you were _acquainted_ with in the theater," Raoul said, his tone menacing. "Are we in agreement, Christine? Do you understand that for us to marry, you must sever all ties with your old life? No more singing, no more dancing. I will happily take you to a performance once we are public, but you must give up this sentiment for the woman who left you alone to fend off the lecherous advances of that monster."

Christine's face registered shock first, then anger, but when she spoke her voice held barely a trace of either, searing a path of rage and disgust down to Raoul's toes. "My teacher was many things, but he was never once lecherous, and he was no monster. You mustn't ever think he was a monster," she implored, needing someone to approve of her relationship with Erik. "As for what you said of Madame Giry, if you wish to keep my affection, then you will apologize."

When Raoul said nothing, torn between a desire to soothe her feathers and to give her his adamant refusal, Christine's eyes filled with tears.

"I suppose your silence is enough of an answer," she whispered, before running back to the house.

_# - # - # - # - #_

Raoul's face was red with anger by the time he returned to find his father alone in the study. Felix glanced up, surprised to see his son go straight for the brandy without comment, and swallow two tumblers full before letting out a grunt of frustration.

"Trouble with the immutable Mademoiselle Daae?" Felix guessed, keeping the inflection of hope from his voice. "She was in near hysterics when she rushed through your mother's Salon."

"Where is she now?" Raoul asked, his tone hard.

"Upstairs, I imagine," Felix replied lightly. _Where she has been nearly every day since her arrival_. "Is something amiss?"

"She has defended that old ballet mistress, and I cannot see a way to convince her that the woman is a criminal. Christine is blinded by innocence and devotion. She even defended..._him!_"

"The ghost?" Felix asked, his voice low.

Raoul nodded, glancing toward the open door. In a moment he had crossed the room, shutting out anyone who might be listening. He turned back to his father, his eyes blazing with anger. "I should have killed him, Father. That day in the cemetery, I should have..."

"Listen son," Felix cut in, disturbed by the blood lust written on his son's face. "No woman is worth this agony. She is young and indecisive, which is why you will wait to marry, correct?"

Raoul sank into a chair, placing his head in his hands. "I wanted to bring that sparkle back to her eyes. I fear I have made a mistake, Father. I thought...I thought if I could renew what we shared before the fire, that you would see the girl I loved. Not this shell; this miserable, lonely person."

Raoul's words struck cold in Felix's heart. Throughout dinner he had caught the girl fiddling with something around her neck, and Hyacinthe had sent a servant to help her undress to find out exactly what she wore on the end of that chain. Undoubtedly it was a ring. He'd suspected his son would do something like that – Raoul had always kept his rebellions a secret, even as a child.

"You should go out this evening," Felix said lightly. "Go see your friends, find a warm woman to comfort you. I'm certain this will all be cleared up by morning."

"You think so?"

Raoul looked up, his hopeful expression tugging insistently on Felix's guilty conscience. Felix looked down at his desk and nodded abruptly. "Of course it will. Women are fickle creatures. She just needs some time to rethink her hasty decisions."

Raoul gripped the glass in his hands, and shrugged. "Maybe it will. I _was_ thinking of going out tonight," he admitted, shooting his father a sly glance. "Madame Barret has sent me several letters, asking why I've neglected her."

Felix smiled. "Then it's set. You go see your lady friend, and allow things to work out on their own."

Raoul set the glass down and stood up, straightened his cravat in the mirror, then headed for the door.

"Oh, and Raoul...?" Felix called after him.

"Yes, Father?"

Raoul stared at his father expectantly, but Felix soon realized he could not say anything about the ring. It would look suspect come morning, when Madamoiselle Daae was either gone or again absent from the table in tears.

Felix cleared his throat, and waved him off. "Be sure to wish your mother good night. You know she worries for you when you stay out late. I know that Madame Barret's estate is on the other side of Versailles, but she merely thinks you are cavorting with your friends in town when you are gone all night. Let her know that you will be in some time after dinner tomorrow. Enjoy yourself - clear your head."

"Of course, Father."

Felix waited until Raoul's carriage had rolled down the estate drive before he rang the bell pull to summon a servant. "Find out if Mademoiselle Daae has retired for the evening. If she has not, I would appreciate her company for a few moments."

* * *


	9. Into the Night

* * *

Knees hugged to her chest, and sobs racking her frame, Christine tried to suppress the tears by pinching at her forearm. Her nails dug into the tender flesh, creating four red crescent marks across her skin. She cried this time not because of sadness, or regret, but anger at herself for being cowardly. She wanted to defend the people she loved, yet felt she had no right in this family. The de Chagny's made her feel ungrateful for choosing not to believe the worst of those who had protected her and given her life purpose. 

Without Erik or the Giry's, Christine knew that she would have been shuttled off to an orphanage, a cruel place where children died and no one missed them. Mamma Valerius had been too ill at the time of her father's death to take on a child, in addition to the fact that she had never dealt with children. She had sent Christine into a world of music and dance, to the arms of her good friend Bernadette Giry, who was ballet mistress at the Opera in Paris. Christine had only flourished though, under the tutelage of her music teacher.

Christine missed her mentor, and his voice, calming her fears as a child and as a young woman. She missed the echo of his rare laughter when she would say something he found amusing, and the ever present sadness he invoked that tore at her heart. At first Christine had not understood why an angel would possess such sadness, and when she had asked he merely said, _"The world around you makes me weep, Christine. I could not even bear this place, if it were not for you."_

Christine could not point to the exact moment she had known that her teacher was not an angel. Perhaps realization came the first time he had left a gift, or in the times at night when she would wake, and feel a slight touch against the top of her head. The constant pranks played on Carlotta, usually after she had done something dreadful to Christine, were what had given Christine the idea that her Angel and the Opera Ghost were one and the same.

But Christine had never mentioned it to him, preferring to keep the Angel at her side. Madame Giry had known of her teacher, and when she did not disapprove, Christine had devoted her life to the Angel's music. He promised her that one day she would sing, and that her voice would strike emotion from the heart of every man present.

The Angel had kept his promise. It was Christine who had not done the same. She had broken the first promise she had ever made to him: that she would never, ever leave him alone.

Now she could not even defend him, and Christine knew that if she did, it would only bring more misery upon herself. She was also afraid that Raoul would take it into his head to go after Erik again, and that she could not bear. Erik deserved peace after all that she had done, peace that she longed to give him, now that she no longer had the right.

Christine cried at the unfairness of it all, that she was caught in the middle of the two men who loved her. She was still crying when a maid entered her room and announced that the Comte wanted to see her immediately.

_# - # - # - # - # - #_

Felix de Chagny sat behind his desk in the study, a striking man with silver hair and sharp eyes. He'd barely said anything to Christine since she'd arrived, most likely dismissing her as an empty headed girl with dreams that went beyond what she deserved. At first she thought him merely a quiet man, who only spoke when it was something worth commenting on. But she soon realized that he only spoke to those he regarded as important.

Obviously she had not made his cut until now.

"Mademoiselle, I am glad to see you were not already asleep," Felix greeted her with uncharacteristic vigor.

Christine stopped expectantly at the edge of his desk, and he waved her down into a chair.

"Bella said that you wanted to speak with me."

"Who?" Felix asked, his brow furrowing.

"The maid, Sir," Christine replied, eying him nervously as he got to his feet. "Bella. She's married to your footman, Joseph."

The look of disinterest on the Comte's face forced Christine to close her mouth, and she felt like the brainless girl that he thought she was. He came around to the edge of the desk and propped his hip against it, looming over her.

"How long have you been here, Mademoiselle?" Felix asked, staring down at her directly.

"A...a few weeks, Sir. Possibly three..."

"Four, not including the time you spent here prior to the New Years," he cut in. "Have you enjoyed your stay, Mademoiselle?"

"I...I..."

Christine trailed off, recognizing the tone of anger in the Comte's voice. He was trying to hide it, but was not doing it well. Had what she said offended Raoul so much that he'd confided in his father? Or was this the result of something else?

Felix leaned backward and retrieved a packet of envelopes, which he held out to her. "These letters are from Madame Giry." When Christine just stared at them, he waved them a little. "Go ahead. Raoul isn't here, so you may have them. I think that he ought to let you visit her, after all, she is of your kind."

Christine met the Comte's eyes a moment, seeing the loathing burning there. She reached for Madame's letters, wondering why Raoul had not wanted her to have them, and why his father was now offering them to her.

"Will you be happy, do you think, being a de Chagny?" Felix asked, raising one silver brow. "You know that with it comes great responsibility. My father, and his father before him, we were all a very...dignified sort. My mother had more poise and grace than any woman I have ever known, and my wife has become just like her. Do you think you are prepared to change your entire way of life to suit our needs?"

Christine's stomach fell to her feet, as she gazed at him with wider eyes. "I know what is expected of me if I marry Raoul," Christine whispered. "How could I not? I've been reminded of it constantly."

"Yet, you have shown no desire to change, Mademoiselle," the Comte stated sternly. "One would think you would have taken advantage of the learning opportunities that have been presented to you, yet we have not heard you express an interest in doing any such thing. You should better yourself while you are still young enough to change, yet you've done nothing but hide away in your room. That to me does not indicate a willingness to accommodate our needs in this family."

"Do you think I am ignorant and uneducated? I had the most brilliant teacher in all the world," Christine protested weakly.

The Comte's eyes narrowed dangerously, "I am not speaking of _music_, Mademoiselle, or anything else this _teacher _of yours might have enlightened you with. I am speaking of things you must learn to become a Vicomtesse. Important things, like how to speak properly, how to walk, how to behave in a social gathering. You know nothing of our world. If you wish to join it," he said, smacking his palm across the desk, "then by God, you must learn!"

Christine jerked, startled by the sudden commanding tone he affected. The Comte's eyes were on her, direct, cold eyes that showed no compassion and no tolerance. It was then that Christine realized he was not trying to encourage her to change. He was discouraging her from marrying Raoul. Unconsciously Christine's hand went to the necklace beneath her gown, and his eyes followed even that small movement.

"What is it you have there, hmmm?" Felix asked, assuming a more relaxed tone. "My son was always impulsive. He hides things from me, even now that he is grown. I know it is a ring, you don't have to sit there all pale faced and trembling. I am not a stupid man, Mademoiselle. I know how my son is. He said that he wished to bring a _sparkle_ back to your eyes, and yet I still see nothing. Does he not make you happy?"

Christine could think of nothing to say except, "I'm so sorry."

Felix wandered back behind his desk, then braced his palms upon it, watching her. "There is an alternative to your plight, Christine," he said gently. "A solution where you and Raoul could be together, and you would never need to deal with this society for which you are so ill prepared. My son would take excellent care of you."

Christine felt her face heat. "You mean as his...m-mistress...?" she stuttered, ashamed to even say it.

"There are worse things in life," the Comte murmured.

"No," Christine said, looking away from him and his damned expressionless eyes. "No."

"He has one already, you know." The Comte smiled as she jerked her gaze back to his. "Ah, yes. A beautiful thing, young, yet so skilled from what I've heard. But for you, he could make an exception and have two. It isn't uncommon for a Frenchman. Or," he added salaciously, "a Frenchwoman."

"No," Christine whispered again, staunchly opposed to the idea in her mind. A faithless marriage was no marriage, of that she was certain. She wanted a marriage as her parents had shared, the marriage her parents had wanted for her. Oddly enough, she had imagined Raoul would have been the man her parents would have approved of, but Christine knew her father would be rigid with shock to hear someone speak to his daughter this way.

"So if you won't become his mistress, and you won't become a _suitable_ wife, Christine, whatever will become of you?" Felix clucked his tongue as her eyes closed and tears slid down her cheeks. Like a wolf scenting a hind, he moved in for the kill. "I could always sponsor you for another year or so at a music conservatory."

Christine looked at the Comte, startled at the suggestion. "Music?" she asked, her throat tightening merely at the remembrance of it. "You would do that?"

"But of course," he said, bowing gallantly. "I am not a cruel man, but I am a strict one. You will either change, or you will not. Whatever you decide to do, is also the deciding factor as to whether you marry my son. The choice is yours."

"I'm too old for a conservatory, Sir. I am trained far beyond anything they could offer," Christine said confidently.

Felix chuckled slightly at her innocence, but decided not to press the issue. He did not care what happened to her, so long as she saw things in his way. "What of your Madame Giry?" he questioned, pointing at the letters. "She is devoted to you. She's come to visit several times, written frequently, and has made a general nuisance of herself. My son has stopped just short of bringing in the gendarmes to press charges of trespassing against her."

"Against Madame Giry!" Christine gasped. "But why?"

"Raoul seeks to protect you."

"That is not protection; that is imprisonment!"

Felix's eyes darkened, and his mouth drew into a flat line. "You ungrateful wench, Raoul nearly died trying to save your worthless life. This is my offer, Mademoiselle, because I assure you that I will not give my approval for this marriage. Either you become his mistress, or you disappear from this house for good. I will pay you any sum. You name your price, and I will give it to you this very night. _Any_ amount for you not to marry my son."

All the air seemed to leave Christine's body then, and shame unlike any she had ever known flooded her. _This_ was the family she had chosen over her own? _This_ was what she had honestly considered better by half than spending an eternity shining in the spotlight, continuing to blossom under Erik's guiding hand? Anger burned in her, and fear as well. What was the Comte prepared to do to be rid of her? What lengths would he go to achieve getting her out of Raoul's life?

"I'll say, Felix, you've outdone yourself," Hyacinthe announced from the doorway of the study. "I didn't think you had it in you."

Christine stood quickly, her eyes swimming with tears, her heart hardening with bitterness. "Why do you hate me so much? What did I do to make you hate me so much?" she cried, looking between them.

"Oh, Christine," Hyacinthe replied, her lips twisting into a mocking smile. "You are not suitable to be his wife. In my opinion you are not even suitable to warm his sheets. I think my son would prefer a woman with a little passion in her heart. You, little girl, have nothing to offer him. So what will it be, hmmm? Money? The conservatory?" Her nails sharpened, as did her trilling tone, and she added, "Or the streets?"

"I will not be reviled in this manner any longer," Christine whispered tearfully. "I will leave immediately."

She started for the door, not looking at either of them, but Raoul's mother caught her by the arm.

"I want the ring that my son gave you," Hyacinthe said, her calculating gaze affixed to the chain on Christine's neck. She held out one silk clad palm, and did not move until the ring was safely ensconced in her hand.

Christine moved into the hall, her legs trembling, her stomach churning. She glanced up the stairs, wondering if she ought to even go up them. There was nothing there of hers, nothing that mattered. Everything, including the gown she wore, had been purchased by the de Chagny family. For a moment she could understand what they had been saying. They thought she was nothing more than a soiled opera singer, who had leeched off their family and coveted their only son.

With cold tears on her cheeks, Christine walked out the front door and into the night.


	10. The Teacher and the Student

* * *

An ink black sky covered Christine from above in total darkness, and the streets of Paris itself were no comfort either. Christine had left the de Chagny estate with nothing except Madame Giry's letters. She had a walk of almost five miles to the Giry residence, and it was close to midnight at that. In her haste to leave, Christine had not thought to bring a cloak, and she had not wanted the charity of asking the Comte for the use of a carriage. Fear did not hit her until she had gotten about a mile from the estate. Prior to that her only thoughts had been to escape, find Madame Giry and forget what had just happened with Raoul's parents. Christine's breath hitched in her throat as she realized she had not gotten to say goodbye to Raoul, and she began to worry that if he found her, he would convince her to go back. 

She would never be able to tell him what his parents had done. Not only would it hurt him, but it was entirely possible that he wouldn't believe her. Quickening her footsteps, Christine vowed to make it to Madame Giry's safely. The streets were ghostly quiet, most people not wanting to stray from whatever warmth they had managed to find. She was amazed how different and frightening the familiar streets were after dark. Even passing the café where Raoul had placed the ring on her finger earlier only brought a faint chill, as the vacant tables on the sidewalk resembled a graveyard of wrought iron and wood.

Christine had just passed the Madeline, growing closer to a side street that led directly to the Champs Elysees, when she heard male laughter echoing down the street. She stopped, frozen for a moment, until she spied a group of six or seven well dressed gentlemen walking down the street toward her, out having a good time. They were laughing and ribbing each other loudly, obviously well into their cups.

They certainly did not hear the whisper soft rustle of her dress, nor the gasping breaths she took as she raced up the steps of the church.

She hid behind one of the Corinthian columns waiting for them to pass, terrified when they seemed to stop and hold a conversation there in front of the church. Freezing from lack of movement after several minutes, she edged backward to the great doors leading into the church and slipped inside.

The warmth welcomed Christine – drew her in – and she was surprised to find several people, mostly older women, near the altar praying. Paris's poor and troubled had come for guidance and shelter, seeking it in a house of God that stood for state, wealth, and power. The altar called to her, but she stayed near the back of the church, choosing a seat in the shadows. Exhausted, she closed her eyes and drifted off, safe in the sanctuary she no longer found comfort in.

_# - # - # - # - #_

Bernadette worked Meg's performance ballet shoes, twisting and softening the shank after Meg had complained of them bothering her during a performance the previous evening. Meg had studied hard for so many years, and loved dance with a passion that was refreshing and inspiring to her mother who had lost all contact with the world of dance and theater.

Not that Bernadette minded the enforced domesticity. Having more time to herself instead of constantly supervising ballet rats, she discovered forgotten past-times like reading and cooking. All of her life Bernadette had trained, studied, or taught ballet. Now her role for dance was limited to fixing her daughter's shoes. She had only seen Meg perform twice at the Comique, and though Meg had asked her to come watch her practice, Bernadette had smiled and waved her daughter away.

It was too painful to watch someone else take the reins of the brightest ballerinas in Paris. Meg and twelve other dancers had been accepted at the Comique, who were thrilled to have the extra talent, but had no need of one more ballet mistress.

Bernadette frowned at an unexpected knock at the door. It was not yet daylight, and Erik and Meg were gone. She'd bullied Erik every morning until he had promised to see that Meg made it to the Comique safely, though neither one had been particularly pleased with the arrangement. The knocking became insistent, as did the chatter of female voices outside. Irritated, thinking it would be another chorus of suffragettes trying to convert her, she marched to the door and wrenched it open, interrupting the cacophony.

"What is the meaning of this?" she asked archly. "Have you no concept of decent visiting hours?"

Stunned, the three bedraggled women moved aside, and a soaking wet Christine was pushed into her arms.

"My God, what happened to you?" Bernadette demanded.

Christine's appearance stunned her. The normally cool, composed girl had obviously been crying, her hair was even wilder than normal, and the once elegant dress was streaked with water and filth. Christine immediately melted into Bernadette's arms and began to hiccup.

"The Sisters at the Madeline thought she was a prostitute, sleeping in the church," one of the women said apologetically. "They threw water on her. Is she yours?"

Bernadette's mouth tightened, but she nodded, stroking Christine's hair. "She was alone?"

"Oh, yes. She had these...," another woman said, holding out some envelopes. "They had your address, so we thought since you were closer than the de Chagny estate..."

"Thank you," Bernadette murmured. She took the envelopes, closed the door on their curious eyes, and ushered Christine into the sitting room.

"I-I'm s-sorry," Christine chattered, her breath visible in the warm air. She shook, cold, and trying not to cry. "I-I'm d-dripping on y-y..."

"Shh...stay right here," Bernadette soothed her. She pushed her into a wooden rocking chair beside the fireplace and left to get some towels, her mind racing ahead to find a solution. She had wanted Christine safe, yes, but to have her here in the house, with Erik due to return before dawn! The thought was enough to turn the rest of her hair gray.

By the time Bernadette had stripped the dress from Christine and wrapped her in a quilt, she'd stopped crying but was still pale and trembling. The dispassionate, broken tone of Christine's voice as she relayed the story was enough to make Bernadette furious.

"How could they?" she demanded, toweling her hair dry with far more force than necessary. "I entrusted you to that boy, and he could not even protect you from his own parents!"

"It wasn't his fault. Please, Madame, do not be angry with him," Christine pleaded wearily.

"Don't you dare defend his actions! He has behaved without honor!"

"No, it was my fault. All of it!" She twisted around to face her guardian, her brown eyes troubled. "All of it! Don't you see? If I hadn't..."

Bernadette gripped her chin with one firm hand, squeezing off the rest of her excuses. "You are not the sole person who caused the disaster. There were two stubborn, pig-headed men in this coil, and it is hard enough to reason with even one! The Vicomte swore to me that he would take care of you! This...this is not proper care!" she said, gesturing angrily, then added, "How long have they been treating you like this?"

Christine pulled her face from Bernadette's grasp. "From the beginning, I think. Only now are they showing what they truly feel."

"You should have come sooner," Bernadette scolded.

"They wouldn't let me," she mumbled. "I didn't even know you were writing me letters."

It was as she had expected, but Bernadette said nothing. It would not solve this dilemma to berate the girl for not acting sooner. Christine was like soft potting clay – easily molded, and never fired. It was her hope that like Erik, one day Christine could change. She had to or she would be miserable the rest of her life.

"I'm so confused," Christine whispered, dropping her head into her hands. "I never wanted any of this to happen. What is wrong with me, Madame Giry? What did I do to deserve this?"

The words echoed ones she had heard from Erik before, long ago, when he'd been a young man. Unlike Erik though, Christine was freer to make her choices. She could do or not do whatever she pleased, if only she had the courage to ask for what she wanted. It seemed she might have lost the Vicomte, but that too might change after he returned from his mistress or wherever he had gone.

"Where is he?" Christine said, her voice muffled by her hands.

"The Vicomte?"

"No," she said. "Erik. Where is he?"

Bernadette stopped drying her hair, and stared down at her. Christine turned to look up at her, eyes soft and pleading for an answer.

"He's...he's here...," she managed to say.

Christine jerked back, and nearly fell from her chair. Her face flushed, and she stared at the door as if expecting him to jump out at her at the mention of his name. Christine pulled the quilt tighter around her nearly naked figure, and tried to speak.

"H...h..."

"Not here right _now_," Bernadette said quickly. "He's out. Erik escorted Meg to the Comique this morning."

That clearly baffled Christine further, for she merely stared.

"Are you alright?" Bernadette touched her cheek, feeling an overwhelming dose of sympathy for her. "I assure you, Erik won't hurt you. He's always been good to you, my dear."

Christine blinked, but managed to stammer out an agreement, her thoughts muddled with a mixture of elation and a touch of fear. Erik, here? She glanced up at the ceiling, amazed at the concept of him living in an actual house as a normal man. Without the darkness, he would be less frightening. Perhaps without the anger, the red rage in his golden eyes...

"How is he?" Christine asked, returning her gaze to Madame Giry. "Is he...?"

"Erik is...Erik," Bernadette replied, not knowing how to answer.

"But...but he wasn't hurt?" Christine pressed, her face lighting up. "He's unharmed? I never heard. I didn't know..."

_"_I thought you had forgotten your teacher," Bernadette murmured.

Christine glanced away for a moment, "I could never forget him. I just don't know what to feel. I don't know what to think - of anything."

"Well, my dear, I cannot hide you from him. He'll be returning any moment, so if you want to avoid seeing him then we must get upstairs."

Christine was terrified at the thought of seeing Erik. It sounded like the most wonderful thing she had heard in weeks, but yet she knew that whatever he had to say would not be pleasant, and she deserved every moment of it. Her heart was pounding now, blood surging through her veins, her entire body aching for something she couldn't identify. It was as if she came alive, her nerves electrified with the promise of his presence. "What do I do?" she whispered uncertainly.

"You cannot stay here, Christine," Bernadette said, her voice apologetic. "I've already promised him that he could stay here. I cannot abandon him."

Christine's eyes filled, but she closed them and pushed down the ball of hysteria that climbed up her lungs into her throat. She had thought if only she made it here, she would be safe. Once again her future remained muddled with uncertainty, and she was frightened. "Where do I go? What do I do?"

Bernadette caressed her cheek, feeling the slight chill that was still present on her flesh. "How would you like to go see Mamma Valerius, hmmm? There will be no one to bother you there, neither Raoul, nor Erik. I know she would be so happy to see you."

Christine felt the pressure fall away from her heart, and she lifted hopeful eyes to heaven, finally seeing a light near the end of the dark tunnel. "Yes. Yes, please. Please," she whispered frantically. "I cannot take any more, Madame Giry. I've been ripped apart, and I'm lost. I am lost without him, but I know that nothing will ever be the same again."

Bernadette had the uncanny notion that Christine was not speaking of Raoul, but she firmly pushed away the hope that welled from within. It was too soon, and perhaps it would never work between them. As optimistic as it sounded, she had always hoped that either Christine or Meg would be able to comfort the boy she'd protected all these years. It seemed the sanest, simplest solution, and yet it had taken such a terrible turn.

"We should get you upstairs and into one of Meg's dresses," Bernadette murmured, urging her to her feet. "There is no fire up there, but we must get you into a dry chemise and a dress."

They turned, hearing the front door open then shut, and both of them stood rooted to the spot as Erik walked past the sitting room door. He glanced in on his way, and stopped dead when he saw them.

At first Erik and Christine merely stared at one another, the teacher and his student, more honest words silently conveyed than anything they could say.

* * *


	11. Freeing the Angel

You may think my beta for the complete rearrangement of this chapter. It had been hashed out in my head about six different ways, until I just sent them all to her and got it back in a neat little bow. We're making a few changes to a couple of chapters in Part I, so it may be a week before I update again. Thanks for all your wonderful reviews!

**Before I forget, I've updated my webpage which is linked on my profile, and added a page for Leitmotif. There is a brief history of the Commune of Paris if you are interested. If anyone finds inaccuracies in the history, please let me know.**

**

* * *

**Erik stared at Christine oddly for a moment, taking in the fact that she didn't appear to be wearing anything beneath a heavy quilt. His glance took in the muddy yellow dress lying at her bare feet on Bernadette's rug. 

"Christine is here alone," Bernadette spoke quickly to reassure him. "She had a mishap at church this morning."

Before Erik could make a reply though, Bernadette was pushing at him, forcing him back out into the front hall. Throwing a cautionary glance over her shoulder at Christine, she turned and closed the pocket doors with a snap.

"You two are going to be the death of me," Bernadette muttered, releasing a shaky breath.

"What is she doing here?" Erik demanded, ignoring the flutter of hope in his heart. "What were you thinking, allowing her in here?"

"I didn't have a choice!" she whispered, her tone hushed and fierce. "_His_ _parents_ all but kicked her onto the street last night. She spent the night in the Madeline, and the nuns mistook her for a prostitute. They tossed water on her and threw her out as well. She has nowhere else to go, at least not until I can arrange for her to go to Mamma Valerius."

"Mamma Valerius?" Erik's face registered the shock he felt at the suggestion. "She's in Germany!"

"I am aware of her location! All the better, if you ask me! And besides, Mamma Valerius writes Christine each Christmas and birthday begging her to come and visit."

Erik's face fell quickly, hurt curling into his stomach. He glanced at the door, as if suddenly remembering his part in the entire ordeal, then down at his feet. Christine in Germany? The thought was unbearable, not nearly as much as worrying over the date of an impending marriage to a man he despised, but almost.

Bernadette's hand on his chest surprised him. He glanced down to find her eyes had softened, and she looked concerned. "It's for the best," she said slowly. "I want her removed from this drama. It isn't good for her. She's too young for this."

"You said it wasn't wrong," Erik said hoarsely, embarrassed by his feelings, by admitting that he even still had them.

"I meant it, Erik, but there has to be more to love than obsession," Bernadette whispered, achingly sad that she had never taught him those things. "You did things the only way that you thought you could. I should have told you. There is so much more..."

"It didn't start that way," he retorted sharply. "I thought what we had before would be enough."

"I know," she said.

Erik clenched and unclenched his jaw, staring at the door behind her. Christine was there, waiting, just as he had dreamed for weeks. Hope did not just beat inside Erik with a mere flutter - it jarred his heart, and it rang in his ears.

# - # - # - # - #

Christine shivered slightly and pulled the quilt more tightly around her shoulders as she waited for Erik to join her in the sitting room. She wished she had had time to get cleaned up and borrow a dress of Meg's before Erik returned. She had thought of nothing else for weeks except the need to talk to him, but not knowing what to say. Her heart was truly shattered and she knew that his was as well. Raoul's parents had destroyed the remaining pieces of her innocence. Raoul loved her, or so he said, but perhaps it was better that his parents had stopped her from marrying him when every time she glanced at him she felt a deep well of resentment. She had begged Raoul not to ask her to perform, and he had laid her centrally as bait for the man to whom she owed so much.

"Christine...?"

She tensed at his voice behind her, and wondered how long he had been watching without her knowledge. Certainly it would have been nothing for him. She had been watched every moment of her life since she'd gone to live at the opera.

"Good morning to you, Sir," she whispered, sounding strangely formal after life with the de Chagny's the last few weeks. She turned, trying to recall all that she wanted to say to him, but as her gaze met his, she forgot everything.

His breathing indicated his own nervousness, and she imagined he thought the very best or the very worst news was about to be delivered. Slowly she stood, her gaze moving to his feet.

"I suppose you are wondering...never mind," she mumbled. "Of course you are wondering..."

"You had best make it quick, Christine. I do not intend to be here when the gendarmes come this time."

"They aren't coming," she replied quickly, glancing up in surprise. "No one knows I'm here."

"Ah, so you are missing. Still, it will not take a genius to find you. I'm sure even your _fiancé_ could manage it."

Christine shook her head, mute with hurt and exhaustion. It would give him hope if she said it, and that would kill her as well. To give him hope, when she knew that standing here before him she could never be what he wanted any more than she could be what the de Chagny's wanted. She was nothing. She was weak, and he could easily crush her, break her far worse than anything Raoul's parents could do. Still, it might unburden his heart to know that the marriage would not take place.

"I am not marrying Raoul," Christine said quietly.

Erik took an involuntary step backwards, an emotion between fear and elation surging through his heart. This time she was looking at him, and the emptiness of her gaze made it difficult to ignore. Christine looked broken, far worse than she had at the time of her father's death. Her face was pale and a deep bluish color was present beneath her eyes. She appeared almost skeletal, and despite the anger that he still felt, he could not help but pity her.

"Why aren't you marrying him?" Erik demanded, his voice harsh and commanding.

"I-I'm n-not good e-enough...," Christine stammered.

Her answer irritated him, and she knew it wasn't what he wanted to hear. Behind the facade of anger, she knew there beat a vulnerable heart.

"You mustn't ever think that," he replied quietly, stricken with uncertainty. "You are worth a thousand of him. More than that..."

Christine had no idea what to say to him. They were no longer student and teacher, and to see him so young, so striking, was a shock. He was not boyishly handsome like Raoul, but there was something compelling about him nonetheless. She recalled the first time he'd given her a rose, the very first gift, and realized now it had all been leading to something more. She'd been too blind to see it, not really knowing the man behind the mirror. Somehow, even though she had known that he was no angel, she had always imagined him older, more like her father. Never had she envisioned romance...and never that the lessons would lead to such disaster.

Now in Erik's presence, she felt like a coltish girl, awkward and uncertain.

"I...I...thought..."

"You thought what?"

"Old," she murmured stupidly, gathering her courage and saying the first thing that popped into her head. His eyes narrowed questioningly until she finished, "I thought you were old."

As if what she said made perfect sense, and it might please her to find that conclusion wrong, he agreed solemnly. "I'm not all that old."

"How old?" she questioned, wanting to know something about him. She had told this man everything – absolutely everything – and now she was left with nothing more than memories.

Erik frowned. "Twenty seven," he guessed, though it sounded like a fact when he said it. "What does it matter?"

"It doesn't," she whispered, looking up at him as he approached.

She started, amazed to find the familiar gentleness in his eyes once more as he traced her cheek with one finger. For a moment the past lay forgotten, and they were two people truly discovering one another.

"Who are you?"

Erik shifted his feet, half turning from her to conceal the mask. "I told you who I am."

"You have given me a name, nothing more," she said, trembling slightly. "Where are you from? Why...why did you live down there?"

"That you know, Christine. You know the answer to that, so why ask it?" Erik demanded.

"Have you no family?" Christine asked, undeterred even by his anger.

"No."

She closed her eyes and shook her head slightly, and suddenly Erik understood her motives for asking. She needed to know, and perhaps more importantly, he wanted to tell her.

Maybe...

He closed that thought quickly. Christine did not have the expression of love on her face that he wished to see. She looked impossibly young, and so vulnerable that he wanted to comfort her even though he couldn't. But he could give her something real. For once, and perhaps never again, but he would tell her.

"I was born in Lille."

Christine blinked at the simple sentence. "Lille?"

"It...it's a city near the Belgian border," he answered, his voice so familiar but his eyes haunted. "My...parents are still there as far as I know. I have not seen them since I was much younger than you are now. It is my hope that they are dead."

"That's a terrible thing to say!" she gasped.

"They were terrible people," he replied, surprised he could say it and believe it this time.

"What is your last name then?" she asked, eager to know more.

"Jeunet."

Christine was silent for a moment, uncertain how she had gotten off task, but wanting to hear more of her mysterious teacher. He was a puzzle she had wanted to solve for many years, and now here he was, answering her questions this time instead of demanding she pay more attention to the lessons.

"Will you tell me more?"

"No. Not about them, Christine," he replied, looking away. "Anything else I will answer."

"I don't have much time, Erik. I need to go before..."

"Before what?"

"Before Raoul finds me," she whispered.

He wanted to ask why she was running from him, if the boy was even aware of what his parents had done, then thought better of it. Perhaps this was a lovers spat, and he was merely a loose end she felt needed securing.

"I'm leaving Paris," she announced in a very uncertain tone.

"So Madame has informed me," Erik stepped forward, surprised when she didn't step back. He braved another step, then another, until he could clearly see into her eyes. "Why?"

"I can't stay here. There's...there is nothing left for me here. I have to leave," she whispered.

"No. No, you don't."

Her eyes widened.

"_I'll_ leave. You stay," Erik said quietly.

She shook her head, and laid a tentative hand on his arm. "You misunderstand me. I'm leaving Paris whether you are here or not. I've allowed everyone to make my decisions for me, and I've hurt everyone because I'm not strong enough to be myself. I don't even know if there is a real person inside of me. I feel...empty."

"You can't go off by yourself, Christine," Erik said, fear flashing through him at the very mention of it. "You would not survive on your own."

Christine trembled inside and out, fear at what she was undertaking beginning to snake through her system. "You are the only person who has ever believed in me. Please don't stop now. I need your help, Erik. Will you help me?"

"Help you?" he repeated.

"I left the de Chagny's with only the dress you see on the floor there. I have no home, no family, and now I have no friends. The Giry's obviously could not take me in even if I wanted them to. I'll stay with Mamma Valerius until I can find work. But I have to leave Paris. I have to!"

The desperation of her tone removed the doubt he had of her intentions. She was serious about this, and the wild, broken look in her eyes was his doing.

"Wait here," Erik said abruptly and strode out of the room. When he returned, he was carrying an old, worn leather satchel, which he placed on the floor at her feet.

"There...there is enough money for you to survive for several years if you spend it wisely. Please...at least consider hiring a lady's maid or a companion."

"A companion?" she brightened considerably. "I hadn't even thought of that!"

"All sorts of things can happen to a girl who travels alone. Find an older woman, someone you can trust. Someone like Bernadette."

"I will -"

He grabbed her hand before she could move even an inch, and slowly raised it to his lips. "I will do anything to keep you here," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry Erik," she said, feeling tears begin to burn her eyes. "I must do this."

"Will you come back?"

"I don't think that I will...but I don't know."

"Promise me that you will come back if things become difficult."

Her lips pursed stubbornly, and he kissed her hand again, confused when she started to cry.

"You don't know what the world is like Christine. There is no shame in asking for help."


	12. From the Journal of Erik Jeunet

Christine woke in Madame Giry's bed, the one Bernadette usually shared with Meg. This was a small house, the build of it narrow and confining. It was as different from the de Chagny mansion as night and day, and yet the feeling of warmth and welcome was much greater here. Despite Erik's hasty departure the night before, and the numbness his words made her feel, Christine desperately wanted to stay with her friends longer. The thought of leaving was enough to send her into another bout of tears, but the thought of staying and facing Erik's pain or Raoul's questions was even worse.

Christine estimated she'd only been asleep a few hours. The floor was thin enough that she could hear Meg and Madame Giry in the kitchen, and could smell something sweet and tempting that reminded her she hadn't eaten since the night before. She rolled out of bed and searched for the gown Madame Giry had promised to leave her. Eager to see Meg again, and hoping that Erik had stayed away, she cautiously opened the bedroom door and stepped into the hall. There was only one other door in the tiny hall, and Christine realized now that it could only be the one to Erik's room.

"But why does he have to stay?" Meg whined from below. "Mama, Christine is our family!"

"Stop this, now," Bernadette scolded. "I have already asked Erik to stay. I made him promise me that he wouldn't leave. Christine is going to visit Mama Valerius, and that is final!"

"I..."

"Meg Giry, if you do not finish washing those potatoes, it will be another hour of practice for you. I may not be your ballet mistress any longer, but I am still your mother! Now stop! I did not say this is permanent, but Christine cannot stay with us. After lunch I will be taking Christine downtown and introducing her to Madame Bullard, her companion. She comes highly recommended.."

"I could go to Germany with her," Meg offered.

"Ha! You are the only one working in this family. And furthermore I would never let my daughter go off alone!"

"But you would let me?" Christine whispered, then felt ashamed of her words. Madame Giry loved her as she did Meg. It wasn't fair to say such things about her when Christine knew now the deep love she also felt for Erik.

Christine started to go down the stairs, but paused outside of Erik's bedroom door. She knew that she really shouldn't be curious about him, and she certainly should not have walked to the door and turned the knob. Silence greeted her on the other side of the door in the dark room. Belatedly she wondered if he might actually be inside, but she didn't think Madame Giry would have allowed him upstairs while she was asleep. The only light was coming through a window that faced an alley leading towards the Seine, and he'd left it uncovered.

Christine moved into the room slowly, not looking toward the small sturdy cot in the corner, but at a small desk that was covered in paper. Balls of crumbled sheet music littered the floor, and she wondered how he composed with no instrument, until her gaze fell on the violin on a shelf above the desk. She immediately recognized the gleaming wood with scars on the end as the violin her father had left for her. It was the only gift she'd ever given her Angel, one she'd left near the mirror one night with a note. It had been five years since she'd seen it, and she'd never really understood how he'd taken it without her seeing. At first she had feared someone had stolen it, but when she had asked he'd said, "I have it, Christine. It is the most precious gift anyone could ever give to me."

She touched it reverently now, her throat tight as she remembered her dear, sweet Papa. The music her father had created from the instrument was nothing like the passionate notes Erik brought forth. At first his music to her had been simple pieces to brighten the mood of a child. Two years ago, around the time she'd received the first rose, the pieces had changed to either melancholy or romantic ones.

A bottle of cologne was set against the wall, and feeling another surge of curiosity, she opened the stopper and inhaled, closing her eyes in pleasure, confused by the feeling the masculine, citrusy scent aroused. Hastily she set it back down, moving on to inspect his other belongings.

A massive amount of scribbles and hard to decipher writings covered Erik's desk. He'd been in a hurry to get his thoughts down most likely, but it looked as if the story was about a spoiled king and his quest to conquer a nation that would not fall. Christine read several pages, wishing she had time to read more. Moving the score out of the way, she flipped the cover of a journal over, one of many that were stacked on the desk.

_I learned Vivaldi's Winter, and played it for her today. She mentioned once that her father had told her it was the melody her mother loved the most, but he would never play it for Christine. Gustave Daae must have loved his wife very much. I know that if anything were to ever happen to Christine, there are a score of songs I would banish from my memory. She shed happy tears after I played today, and there was never a moment when I wanted to put my arms around her more._

_The precocious girl has no idea how much preparation her Angel must take for every lesson. She wonders why we only meet three times a week. In truth, if I had to spend all the hours when I am away from her learning what I can to prepare for the lesson, I would do it. I follow Reyer around as if I am lost, which I am, and listen as he condemns certain composers and praises others._

_I have a mind of my own, but this stimulating debate is the only one that I have to compare my own thoughts with. If he says Wagner is a genius, I of course, do not believe him. When he denounces Listz for not being absolute, I praise him for his innovativeness. I wish I could engage him in a true debate, though with my current state of knowledge I fear I would lose. In truth I am struggling to learn everything about music, so that I might fulfill my role to Christine. She depends on me...she might not know me...she may never understand...but for once in my life I am needed. _

Christine closed the book, realization roiling uneasily in her mind. "Oh, God," she whispered, backing away from the desk. "Everything was for me..."

"Christine?"

Christine jumped as Meg pushed the door to Erik's room open and poked her head inside. "Meg!"

"Christine!"

Forgetting where they were, and whose room they were in, Meg rushed to Christine and hugged her fiercely.

"Oh, I missed you so!" Christine whispered. "How have you been?"

"I'm working at the Comique!" Meg said excitedly. She stepped back and bounced twice. "You would love it there, Christine! Why don't you come with me tomorrow and audition? You know that they'll have to let you sing! After all, you are Christine Daae!"

"I don't think..."

"Oh, don't think! You can't leave me," Meg wailed. "I told Mama that _he_ needs to leave..." Her eyes widened as she suddenly realized where they were. "We shouldn't be in this room!"

"I just wanted to see his things," Christine whispered.

"He doesn't even want Mama in here," Meg said, pulling Christine to the door. "Come, let's go downstairs and get some lunch. Mama says she has found a traveling companion for you and so she will be taking you to the train station later today."

Christine halted immediately. "Today?" she gasped. "I thought I would at least be able to see you for a night before...," Christine stopped herself with a shake of her head. "No, your mother is right. I need to leave Paris, and the sooner the better for everyone concerned."

"Mama says it would be better if you left before Erik comes home," Meg said bitterly. "I wish he would just go back where he came from. Everything is his fault: your leaving, Mama not being able to work."

Christine stopped her before they went downstairs, not really sure why she needed to defend Erik, but feeling compelled. "Please be nice to him, Meg. He hasn't got anyone other than your mother."

"Christine! After everything he's done!" Meg exclaimed.

"Meg...please," Christine whispered, keeping her gaze steady. "Don't make him feel unwelcome because of me. I have Mamma Valerius, and perhaps your mother will let you visit us in Germany, but Erik has no one."

"You sound like Mama," Meg grumbled before going downstairs.

Christine hesitated a moment, then dashed back into Erik's room. She took the small journal from his desk and scrawled a note on a piece of sheet music, then tucked the journal into the pocket of her dress. He would be angry when he discovered it missing, but by then she would be halfway to Germany.

_# - # - # - # - #_

_Savannah, 1930_

"Poor Grandfather," Cassandra whispered, hugging the journal to her chest. "I can't believe he had his heart broken again, although it doesn't sound like he had gotten over her leaving him the first time when she went off with that Vicomte fellow."

Gregory stared at the stack of journals spread out before them, written in the scrawling hand of Grandfather Jeunet. "I wish I had studied my French lessons more," he grumbled.

"Well he's lucky to be alive after all of this," Cassandra whispered, her heart wrenching for their stern but loving Grandfather downstairs. "Goodness, he went through a lot during those times in France!"

Gregory scowled down at the journal she was holding. "I can't believe he just let her go off by herself. Does it say what happened between them?"

"No, just that she broke her engagement with this other fellow, the Vicomte with the horrible parents."

"Cassandra? Gregory?"

The cousin's eyes widened, and they hurriedly pushed the journals beneath a dust covering and shut the lid of the trunk.

"That's your father. Our parents must have returned," Gregory whispered, scooting back away from the trunk.

"Yes, Papa?" Cassandra called, wiping tickling dust from her nose.

Her father's dark head appeared at floor level as he advanced up the stairs. "What are you two doing up here? Your Aunt Emmaline has just arrived."

"Aunt Millie's here?" Cassandra shrieked, and leapt to her feet. She rushed past her amused father without a second glance and vaulted down the stairs.

"Are you coming, Gregory?" his Uncle Richard asked, coming up the stairs. "Christ it's hot. What are you doing up here in this heat?"

Gregory got to his knees just as his Uncle's gaze fell on the opened lock. A broad hand dropped to his shoulder, and pushed him back down.

"Nosing around, eh?" he asked, smiling. "What did you find?"

"Just some old journals," Gregory muttered.

"Hmmm." Richard said, and flipped open the lid. "Your Aunt Emmaline is the reason these journals are up here. Nosy thing, she was. Had Papa in a tirade for days. What do they say?"

Gregory's attention hung to one part of what he'd said. "Grandfather was mad at her for reading them?"

"Mad? No, I think furious would be a more accurate term. If you've never seen your Grandfather truly angry...," Richard blew out a breath and raised his brows, "well, consider yourself a lucky fellow."

"It was Cassandra's idea," Gregory said.

"It is always a woman's idea," Richard replied, and gave him a grin. He peered down into the trunk, filled with the memories of his aging parents. Like a child tempted, but frightened, he closed the lid. Better to save that for another time, when they were gone, and when he missed them.

"Come on, your father has been looking everywhere for you," Richard said abruptly.

Gregory glanced behind him to the trunk, but followed. Aunt Millie was here, perhaps she could tell them more about the events in Paris all those years ago.


	13. Pity the Broken Hearted

Happy Halloween!

* * *

Erik did not return to the house for three days. Bernadette had fretted the entire time, alternately praying for Christine and for Erik. Raoul de Chagny had been by, his handsome face pale with worry over the fate of his fiancée. Bernadette pitied the man, who had apologized profusely for his parents, but she told him nothing. He guessed for himself where Christine had gone, after all, where else would she go? Bernadette had no doubt he would travel to Germany to find her and attempt to bring her back. There had been no mention of Erik, and Bernadette could only hope that the boy would soon give up his quest to return Christine to Paris. 

Bernadette had not particularly liked the woman she'd hired to travel with Christine. She was a sour faced matron, but she was the best Bernadette could find on such short notice, and she would keep untoward advances away from the girl. Until Christine was with Mamma Valerius though, and she had received a letter stating all was well, Bernadette knew she would remain in a constant state of agitation.

It was with some relief then, when Erik returned shortly after Meg's ballet practice one evening. His shoulders were stooped, his face bearing the exhaustion of spending the night hiding in cramped tunnels, which was exactly where she had known he would go.

"Silly man," Bernadette chided, pushing him into a room behind the kitchen. "You're frozen and filthy!"

Too tired to fight, Erik allowed her to help him with his coat and shirt. "Is she still here?" he whispered hopefully.

"No," Bernadette replied quietly. "I sent her to Mamma Valerius the same day she arrived here."

"It wasn't fair for her," he said guiltily. "I should have been the one to leave. She doesn't know how to survive..."

"Neither do you," Bernadette said, squeezing his shoulder. "This is for the best, Erik. It doesn't have to be permanent, but for now this is the only option. Besides, Christine has not seen Mamma Valerius in years. This will give them a chance to visit, and for you both to heal."

"It should have been me," Erik repeated wearily.

Bernadette planted her fists on her hips and stared at him. "When was the last time you had anything to eat?"

"Eat?" Erik repeated blankly.

Bernadette rolled her eyes. "Yes, you can certainly take care of yourself." She turned and started the water in the bathtub for him, scolding even more when he fell asleep standing. "In with you, Erik! Get in this bath and clean yourself, because I am not washing your sheets after you spread this grime on them. You can do it yourself!"

Bernadette turned to leave him, but he caught her arm, his eyes suddenly aware. "Did she cry when she left?" he asked, looking pained.

Bernadette's gaze softened, the anxiousness he'd made her feel in being gone turning to tenderness in view of his lost expression. Oh yes, she'd cried. Christine had carried on as if she would never see them again, and Meg had done the same. Bernadette had wanted to join them, but she had remained strong outwardly, preferring to keep her tears on the inside. She always had to be strong, when sometimes she felt as if she were the weakest of them all. "Take your bath, Erik," Bernadette said gently. "I'll have dinner ready when you're through."

_# - # - # - # - # - # - #_

Exhausted. Erik could not remember a time he had been so completely drained of energy, emotion, and desire. A pit in his heart was all that Christine had left, a black, smoking hole that was filled with grief and longing. It was more than her love, more than her companionship he needed. Until seeing her again, he hadn't quite realized how much he needed her smile, how much he would miss her voice once it was gone. There had been some comfort when Christine was at the de Chagny's. He'd imagined her happy, carefree, in love. At least then he'd been able to fool himself into thinking that she was all that mattered, that his own misery was nothing if she could be content in the fine estate Raoul had sequestered her in.

The warm steam from the water seeped into Erik's skin, clearing the sinus passages that had been plugged with the remnants of a thousand tears. He had nothing left for the world, nothing to give, and it had certainly never given him anything in return. Weary of his pitiful thoughts, Erik drained the tub and retrieved the clothes Bernadette had placed inside the room.

She and Meg were sitting at the table when he walked into the kitchen, their plates empty and food still on the platters before them. A vacant chair was pulled back, his place reserved for him if he wanted it.

"Please sit," Bernadette implored softly. "Join us, Erik. Please."

He glanced uncertainly at Meg, who was staring. "I do not think..."

"We're having rabbit," Meg announced, interrupting him. "Hurry, before it grows cold."

Erik hesitated again, but sat down, extremely uncomfortable. He listened dispassionately as Bernadette said grace, self conscious as he murmured his own "amen" well after the women had said theirs. He'd just cut a portion of rabbit from the bone, and placed it into his mouth when Meg informed them, "I saw Monsieur Piangi today."

Erik stopped chewing and glared hard at Meg, whose eyes widened.

"Meg, not at the table," Bernadette admonished, but did not berate her for bringing it up. It was not fair to her daughter that she must live in the house with a man she didn't understand and feared. If Meg was willing to break the silence of the past and reconcile it, then Bernadette would not stop her.

"No, I'd like to hear this," Erik said dismissively. "It is always interesting to hear tales of resurrection. Tell me, Little Giry, what did Ubaldo have to say for himself?"

Meg glanced at her mother, suddenly afraid to be actually speaking with their guest. Her mother merely shrugged, as if to say Meg should have known better than to start a conversation she had no wish to finish.

"H...he can't say an-anything," Meg stammered. "His voice..."

"But he is alive?" Erik shook his head. "I thought he'd had apoplexy or something. His eyes were bulging..."

"Erik, enough," Bernadette cut in.

"Why Bernadette, she was merely being curious," Erik replied, glancing at Meg malevolently. He was not certain precisely why the girl could not just ignore him and be done with it. He'd certainly taken care of her every need from the time she'd been a child. He'd even held the squalling thing once or twice, enchanted and dumbfounded by the embodiment of innocent beauty. At the time he had nearly been an adolescent himself, and resented Meg for being Bernadette's child, for taking her away from him in even the smallest degree. He treated Meg cautiously, all the while holding a niggle of worry that she had every right to question his place in her mother's life.

"Did you mean to kill him?" Meg whispered, staring at her plate.

"No, he did not," Bernadette said firmly. "Now finish your dinner."

Instead Meg's gaze returned to Erik's to find him clenching his fork in his hand. "Did you?" she persisted.

"At the time, Little Giry, whether he lived or died was the least of my concerns," Erik said honestly. "Do I regret it now? Perhaps I do, perhaps I don't. Since he is not dead, then I will not lose sleep over his fate. I think I did the world a favor in ridding him of his voice..."

"Erik!" Bernadette said sharply.

He gave her a sullen smile, "It is too bad I did not think to do the same for Carlotta, no?"

Bernadette stood quickly and threw her napkin down. Snatching her plate from the table, she sent them both a hard glance. "If you two are going to squabble like children, I am going outside to eat. Erik, when you are through, you may take yourself upstairs and sleep off this grumpy attitude. In the morning, I will hear no more of this, or you will both be doing pointe work until your toes fall off!"

With an indignant huff Bernadette stomped out of the room, leaving Erik and Meg to gape at one another. As the front door slammed shut behind her mother, Meg pushed away from the table, feeling awkward in his company.

"Sit!" Erik snapped. "For God's sakes, I've done nothing to you."

Ashen faced, Meg remained rooted to her chair. Like a sullen child, her lips began to quiver with anger even as tears gathered in her eyes. She stared down at her plate, trying to ignore him as he ate with sharp, violent movements.

"Aren't you going to eat?" he asked looking up from his food.

"I've lost my appetite," Meg whispered, not looking up.

"Look at me, Little Giry," Erik commanded. She didn't obey, and he slapped his palm on the table. "Look at me!"

Jerkily, Meg raised her gaze to his, meeting his narrowed eyes across the table. "I'm sorry, Monsieur," she said, flushing uncomfortably.

"For what? You've done nothing wrong," Erik said testily. "You were attempting to have dinner with your mother when I barged in, unwelcome and unannounced. I've destroyed your life, endangered it by living here, and now I've run off the girl you love as a sister. So why should you apologize to me, hmmm?"

"For dredging up the past, for causing a scene at dinner..." Meg trailed off uncertainly.

Erik pushed his chair back and glared at her. "You won't have to worry about my presence at your dinner table again, Mademoiselle Giry. I won't intrude upon you again."

He turned on his heel, only to have her shout, "No! Wait...Erik! Wait, please!"

Glancing back, he found her standing and leaning over the table, looking suddenly indecisive now that she again had his attention. "What is it now?"

"My mother will be angry with me if I've offended you. Please finish your dinner. She...she cares about you very much, Monsieur. I can't pretend I understand why she does." Meg clapped a hand over her mouth as she realized she had indeed insulted him very much. "I didn't mean...what I meant to say, Monsieur...I do not know you very well. What I have seen has not been..."

"I know." Erik closed his eyes, the anger leaving and exhaustion creeping back in, an ebb of blackness dulling his senses. "I know what you see when you look at me, Mademoiselle. You have every right not to trust me. I don't understand what your mother sees either, but somehow, she has always been with me. Like a sister...a mother..."

Meg sat back down, her expression guarded. "I saw you that night with Monsieur Buquet. You were in the flies above the stage, right before he fell."

Erik stared down at his feet, nausea rolling forth from greasy rabbit and boiled potatoes. "I killed him, Meg, if that's what you are asking. And no, I can't regret it, except that I had to be the one to do it. He was not a good man; he had a taste for disturbing things, unnatural things I don't understand, and I hope never reach your innocent ears."

"He liked young boys," Meg supplied, then turned red as wine.

"Buquet liked many things," Erik said quietly. "It is best if you put him from your mind. He doesn't deserve a second thought."

"Piangi will never sing again," she whispered. "Christine is gone. My mother cannot teach."

"Would an apology even begin to suffice, Little Giry? It would not, and you know it. Nothing excuses what I have done. I can give you many reasons, but I won't. I can say I'm sorry and hope that there is enough of your mother inside of you that you may see that I am not a complete monster." He cast a gaze over the table, his first dinner with a family in years, now ruined. Despite what Meg had said about wanting him to stay, the evening had turned out much as he expected. "Tell your mother I'm sorry for disturbing you. I won't bother you again."

Meg pressed her face into her hands as he walked from the room. She hadn't meant to start trouble. She had been trying to make conversation with him at first, doing as Christine and her mother had asked and giving him a chance. Somehow it had gotten out of hand.

The candles had burned down by the time Bernadette came back in to find her daughter looking confused and trying not to cry, still sitting at the empty table.


	14. Divergance

The train's whistle announced Christine's arrival in Cologne, and she eagerly looked out the window, wanting to jump off the train and never return to it. The first two days of the trip had been horrible. The woman Madame Giry had hired, Delia Bullard, complained of everything. It was too hot, too cold, too noisy. Christine did all that she could to appease her, not wanting to be abandoned between Berlin and Paris. Christine already missed the Giry's, Erik, and Raoul. If she'd stayed a bit longer, she could have said goodbye to Raoul, but that would have meant another tearful parting she was unprepared for.

Instead, Christine made up her mind to look forward to Berlin, to seeing Mamma Valerius and laying her head in perfumed arms. Mamma Valerius would soothe her fears. She would welcome her with the enthusiasm she'd shown in her letters all this time, and shelter her until at last Christine could find her wings.

"I'm going to walk around the station a bit," Christine said, stretching the cramped muscles in her back.

"You go on, I have no needs to attend at the moment," Madame Bullard grumbled. "Stay in view of the train, lest some man decides to take you into the forest and ravish you."

Madame Giry would not have liked it, if she had known the way the companion was so cavalier about sending her off alone, but Christine shrugged. A few moments away from the surly company of Madame Bullard would not trouble her at all. "Will you keep an eye on my satchel then? I won't be long."

Madame Bullard made a noncommittal noise, and Christine left the train, trusting the woman to do as she'd asked. She paid for a steaming cup of cider in the rail depot and walked out to a bench near a fountain, watching as people passed by. Along with the fear of the unknown, Christine realized there was also a sense of freedom in the uncertainty. Nothing was expected of her at the moment. No one depended on her, and no one was watching her.

With a secretive smile, Christine reflected that not even the companion was doing that. The memories from Paris were still fresh, but Paris was now a distant place that no longer threatened. Surely she would continue to miss her home of many years and the people there, but for a time the tranquility and offering of shelter at Mamma Valerius's would be welcomed.

Christine reflected that after years of a strict regime of dancing and singing, she had no structure to her life now. Her mornings, days, and evenings were now to do with as she pleased. For years she and Meg had complained of too much work, and now with an inner laugh, she could complain of too little.

"Perhaps Mamma Valerius can get me a job at a theater in Berlin," Christine murmured. "After all, she did find Madame Giry for me. Surely she knows more people in the theater world."

Dreams of singing again filled Christine's head. She leaned back against the bench and stared at the sky, wondering if she could retrain her voice in a few short weeks and return to the stage. Erik's journal was tucked into the satchel on the train, and she had pored over every page. It started just a year or two after her lessons began, and ended about the time she'd turned thirteen. Erik had inserted flashbacks to his earlier years, and these had been a revelation to Christine into just how appalling his life had been before coming to the Opera Populaire. Those entries made her even more ashamed of her behavior toward him, and she wished she had taken another journal in order to learn more about her teacher.

When at last the train whistle blew again, she returned to their compartment on the train, but stopped short at the entrance. Her satchel was still on the floor, but Madame Bullard was gone. Christine frowned, but entered and sat down. Surely she ought to give her a reprimand for not taking more care with the satchel. All of the money Erik had given her was tucked inside except for a very small amount in her pocket. She'd been afraid to count it, merely peered inside and gasped at the obscene amount he'd given her.

When the woman didn't return immediately, Christine became concerned. Perhaps she'd become ill, or been detained at the door of the train. Christine leapt to her feet and grabbed the satchel, her arm yanking it so forcefully that she nearly threw it over her shoulder. Frowning at the unexpected lack of weight, she peered inside and felt her stomach turn to ice.

"It's gone," she whispered, staring blankly into the bag. "All of it..."

"Ticket, Miss?" the conductor asked, rapping on the door of the compartment.

"Monsieur! My...my companion...I think she has stolen my money!" Christine exclaimed, thrusting the bag out for him to look at. "It was full of francs, Monsieur, and now there is nothing!"

The conductor shot her an irritated glance. "Ticket, miss? You'll need your ticket or I'm afraid you cannot stay on board."

Numbly Christine showed him her ticket, and he turned to leave. "Wait!" she protested, catching him by the arm. "My companion has stolen from me! There was a lot of money in this bag! It was filled!"

The man stared at her, then pointed to the depot. "You'll have to take this up with the magistrate, but it means losing your ticket."

"But...she could be on this train!"

"Or, she could have gone down the street, whistling to find herself richer," the man grumbled, pulling himself free. "I have a schedule to keep. Make up your mind, mademoiselle, either stay on, or get off."

Angrily Christine demanded that the conductor unload her luggage from the train, and she descended, looking around for Madame Bullard. She felt used and foolish, and quite angry that someone would dare steal from her.

The amount of money missing was bad enough, but she could somehow find a way to Mamma Valerius. Even worse was the idea that the woman had taken everything Erik had given her. Her heart hammering suddenly, Christine reached for the journal in the front pouch, assured to find that it was still there, then set off to find the magistrate.

# - # - # - # - # - #

Erik watched Meg stop and stare into every candy shop between Madame Giry's and the Comique. Remembering her penchant for sweets, and the strict diet her mother kept her on, he chuckled. It had been the same every time he followed her to work. She would stop and peer into the window at the chocolatier's, the baker's, and the confectioner's, and drool as a half child-half woman with no hope of receiving even one piece of candy, chocolate, or cake.

Not relishing the thought of actually walking with Meg every day, Erik had kept his distance. She knew he was there but rarely acknowledged him, and since they entered the house separately, Bernadette most likely knew her forced pairing was not going to end in friendship. It was always a great relief then, when they finally made it to the Comique and he could part ways with the responsibility of watching out for her. Erik had told Bernadette to hire a hack and be done with it, but she'd refused to allow it, saying Meg needed the exercise.

His only response had been, "Well I don't!"

Meg lingered so long this time that Erik pulled his watch out impatiently. She had twenty minutes to make it to the Comique, a walk which took nearly thirty from this point on. Irritated, he strode forward until he was standing over her, glaring at his own reflection in the shop's window. "I don't have time for you to gawk all day, Meg, and neither do you."

She gave a heartfelt groan and pulled her gaze away. "I just would love one piece of chocolate cake. One blueberry pie. An entire box of bon bons!"

"You know your mother wouldn't allow that," Erik replied, then pulled out a few francs. "Go in and get whatever you want, so long as you don't take all day. We'll have to almost run as it is."

Meg hesitated, but her gaze went back to the window. "Anything for you, Monsieur?"

"No." She started for the door, but he stopped her by clearing his throat. "Perhaps some hard candy, something with cinnamon."

Meg gave him a slight smile and entered the shop. Erik laughed when she returned a few moments later with only his candy and nothing for herself. "I wanted something," Meg confessed, giving a guilty look back into the store. "I just couldn't. I'd feel terrible about it for days."

"Like the time you stole Carlotta's Valentine chocolates and had them for yourself?"

Meg flushed. "Of course you would know such a thing!"

"Know? My dear, I was accused of taking them," Erik hid a smile. "It might be the one thing of hers I didn't steal!"

"You never told my mother, did you?"

"Now why would I do that?" Erik murmured, shooting her a sly smile. "I have something to hold over your head."

Meg handed him his candy, suspicion in her eyes. "You won't tell her, will you?"

Erik tipped his hat downward as a fellow passed on the street, and began to walk toward the Comique. After a moment Meg fell into step beside him, her stride nearly as long as his. They walked in silence until they reached the street across from the theater. Meg hesitated a moment, then turned to look at him.

"Will you?" she repeated.

Her expression was so much like Bernadette's then that Erik had to smile. "Your secret is safe with me, Little Giry."

She sent him a disarming smile before she scampered across the street. As Erik watched, a woman broke away from a group and ran toward Meg. She thrust something into Meg's hands, and shouted, "We have every right to vote! Take your stand! Women must speak now, or we will forever be silenced by close minded men!"

"Suffragettes," Erik muttered, turning away only after Meg rushed up the steps to the theater and he was certain of her safety. "I can't imagine a more frightening group of women exist in this world."

With his hat pulled low to conceal his mask, Erik returned to the same shop where Meg had refused to buy herself anything earlier and bought her a box of opera creams. Once back home, he went quickly to Meg's room before Bernadette could spot him and slipped the box into the top drawer of her dresser.

* * *

What would you guys think of an alternate universe Phantom Western? I've got one drafted up for those who are interested. I placed a link on my profile for a preview. 


	15. Parting with Darkness Into the Unknown

That last chapter (and this one) was fairly short, so here you go! Please remember to review, especially those of you I haven't heard from yet!

* * *

Christine could categorize much of her life into befores and afters. It was as if her life would amble along, allowing for gradual change, and out of nowhere the cruel hand of fate would strike and heap misery down upon her head. Had she believed in the mystic karma that Erik had once told her of, she might have thought that in a previous life she'd been a cruel person, that now this was the Universe's way of balancing the eternal realm of yin and yang.

First, there was life before her father died, and of course, the depression and loneliness after. Then Erik, who had inspired and taught her with stern fondness, and afterward, wanted to possess her with jealous passion. Now she could add yet another monumental shift - life knowing the comforts of the protection given by those who cared for her, and after, stranded in a foreign country with no money and little understanding of the language.

The magistrate proved to be no help at all. He spoke French, but was not inclined to help a Frenchwoman, no matter how pretty a young thing she was. As if Napoleon weren't annoying the Germans enough at the moment, he had to allow members of his regime to come to neighboring countries like the plague! So when the young girl returned a third time to inquire if one Madame Bullard who was in the possession of one leather satchel filled with money had been located, the magistrate said something sure to instill fear into the heart of even the most hardened men.

He asked her if she was a spy.

Mademoiselle Daae left his office quickly and never returned, while the magistrate laughed loudly to himself at the shock of fear he'd witnessed in her eyes. What would a spy be doing in Cologne, he mused to himself, when their usefulness would be much more effective somewhere else? The girl had a frailty about her that bothered him though, but still, he would rather lay in rotting turnips than help one of the French.

When, a few days later, one Madame Bullard was apprehended at the train station trying to purchase a ticket back to Paris, the magistrate hurried to the inn where Christine was staying, only to be informed that the girl had left in the early morning hours without paying for her room and bought her own ticket to Berlin.

_# - # - # - # - #_

By the time Erik, back in Paris, discovered his journal was missing and howled in embarrassed rage, Christine was already in Berlin. So with the exception of being hungry and less than presentable, she was proud of herself for saving her money enough to make it there. Nothing traumatic had happened. For a few brief moments she had considered sending for Madame Giry, but the stab of unease in doing so had not allowed for it. She could not abide the idea of waving a white flag so early in the journey. It would be mortifying to admit to anyone that she'd been so trusting as to leave a fortune with a veritable stranger, and lost everything a mere three days after leaving Paris.

Berlin was a confusing city, much like Paris had been when Christine had arrived there so many years ago. With stuttering German, she asked for directions to the address Madame Giry had given her, and it was with a breath of relief that she arrived at the stately home of the late Professor Valerius and his widow.

"At last," she whispered, knocking on the door with tears of joy already in her eyes. She hadn't meant to cry – really – but the past few days had simply been too much for her. The food between Cologne and Berlin had been scarce, sleep scarcer still as she feared sleeping on the train and being accosted. She had left the train only when absolutely necessary for fear of somehow being delayed and not being able to continue her journey under the ticket she held.

The older gentleman who opened the door regarded Christine suspiciously from behind a monocle. Over his other eye, he wore an eye patch. The expression on his face was all that kept Christine from smiling.

"Who are you?" he asked, in commanding German.

Christine took in the rest of his attire then – Prussian blue military dress, with white stripes emblazoned over the front. He was a soldier, an officer if she was not mistaken.

"M-my na-ame is Chr...Christine...," she stammered, remembering what the magistrate in Cologne had accused her of. "Is...is Madame Valerius in?"

"No," he barked. "She has leased the house to me while she travels in Italy."

"B-but!" Christine exclaimed, "She cannot be in Italy!"

"Well she is," the man said ungraciously. "Now be off with you. It is most improper for you to be standing here, and besides that, I detect an accent. Are you French?"

"Swedish!" she announced violently. "Please, Monsieur, I was expecting to see Mamma Valerius. I was robbed on my way here from Paris."

"So you are French," he accused.

"No, I am Swedish!" Christine denied. Of all the places for Mamma Valerius to have to live, it would be the one country that hated the French as much as the English did. "I trained in Paris for many years as a singer, but I am Swedish."

Interest sparked in his one eye, and for a moment Christine thought his whiskers looked rather dashing as he smiled. For an older gentleman, an officer no less, he was very handsome. "A singer? An opera singer?" he stressed pleasantly.

"Ah, yes," Christine murmured, wondering if his interests were musical or otherwise inclined.

The man regarded her for a moment more, then pushed the door open. "Do come in, girl. I shall see what can be done for you."

# - # - # - #-

"How could you let her in my room, Bernadette?" Erik asked, waving one of his journals in her face. "Have I no right to privacy? Have I nothing?"

Bernadette's face showed so much surprise, Erik could already hear the mocking tone before she spoke. "You, concerned about privacy? Really, Erik. If you had any sense at all about how you've pried into other people's lives, you wouldn't say something like that."

The leather journal was waved again, and yet here it was the bull who held the target of rage, and not the toreador. Erik had been ranting about the loss of one of his journals all day, until Bernadette longed to stuff cotton into her ears merely to block out his complaints. Annoyed, she snatched it out of his hands, and was surprised when he didn't take it back.

"What is so incriminating then, that Christine's eyes will burn when she reads your words?" Bernadette asked haughtily. Erik glared at her but didn't attempt to take the journal. Feeling a whirl of delight at the temptation that was not going to be denied, she opened to the middle of the journal and began to read silently.

_Fate binds me to her. That must be it, as there is no other explanation for the connection that I have with her. Whatever she is feeling I can sense it, and she does not have to say anything. I can see it in the dark moorings of her eyes, in the way her mouth purses in dissatisfaction or lifts into a secretive smile. I know it must be fate, for now in the cold darkness of my home I can feel warmth. _

_I am no longer alone, and eagerly await a future when I can discard the shroud of despair and embrace Christine. I cannot believe anything other than my dream – that she will love me. _

_Christine will love me._

"Oh, Erik," Bernadette whispered, deeply touched by Erik's words. He was standing across the room from her, hands thrust behind his back, anger written into every line of his bearing. "Did the other have this?"

Erik shook his head slightly. "No. It was before, before I felt that way about her. In the journal Christine took are things of a more personal nature - about the fair, and about my family. It was the first journal that I ever wrote. Now she knows e-everything," he said, his voice cracking.

"And doesn't she deserve it, after all?" Bernadette said wonderingly. "I think you should give Christine some credit, Erik. She did care. She loved the Angel."

"But not me," Erik said quietly.

"You are one and the same. One day she will realize the full meaning of that," Bernadette replied, setting the book aside. And so, hopefully, would Erik she added to herself.

"She left a note," Erik whispered, pulling it from his pocket. "Nothing so extraordinary. She asked my forgiveness."

"For taking the journal?"

"I assume she meant more. She doesn't specify," he murmured, staring down at the note, which was now all he had left of her except for the violin. "Do you think she will come back?"

"I don't know. Perhaps the Vicomte will bring her back," Bernadette said, testing Erik's reaction; surprised when his expression did not change. Erik had not been present when the Vicomte had come by a second time, announcing his intent to travel to Germany in a week for that task.

"Perhaps," Erik agreed quietly, and slipped the note back into his pocket. "At least then we would know she was safe. Whether or not she returns...I..."

"You what?"

His face turning red, he realized now that Bernadette knew how alive his love for Christine truly remained. It had been his hope at first to keep that secret, to treasure that remaining kernel of sweetness and affection he felt in his heart, and not allow anyone to know it. Now it no longer mattered. There would be no judgment from Bernadette. She understood him more than anyone ever had, and forgave him when she probably shouldn't.

"I just want to know that she is safe," he admitted softly.

The fire burned low, and Erik and Bernadette sat in comfortable silence, listening to the pop of green timber giving way to smoke and ash. Upstairs, Meg ate her ninth opera cream and experimentally pinched her side to ensure she was not getting fat.

In Germany, Christine accepted the invitation of the German officer and entered the house, risking a backward glance into the night, where darkness waited to claim her.


	16. In His Shoes

The German made Christine a sandwich, and stared at her from across Mamma Valerius's parlor while he swilled beer from what had to be the mammoth of all beer mugs. Christine nibbled nervously, wondering what a German soldier would do with a French woman. Bed her? Kill her? She regretted crossing the threshold, but the warmth of the house had pulled her inside, away from the dark confusing city that she'd stumbled through all day.

"What is your name?" she finally asked, to break the silence.

"Otto Wuertemberger," he stated, his dark eyes fixed on her lovely face, "at your service."

"Hmmm," Christine murmured, nervous again. The sandwich tasted like heaven, although the bread was different and the meat tasted strange. She ate more, wondering if she could possibly eat until he drank so much that he fell asleep. Christine then remembered he was German, and it was highly doubtful he would drink too much if he fell into a vat of beer. "Do you know Mamma Valerius?"

"I do," Otto replied lazily. "Although I was more acquainted with her husband in my youth. How do you know her? Are you a relative?"

"No. My father was Gustave Daae. He was a violinist," Christine said with pride, though she was growing uncomfortable in the quiet house. She could see no alternative but to accept whatever hospitality this man gave. He knew Mamma Valerius, so perhaps he was not a bad sort, even if he was German. And he was older, though probably only fifty or so. She'd heard the ballet girls state that a man of a certain age could not compromise you the way a young man could, however that was possible.

The German officer gave a grunt of dissatisfaction. The mention of the old woman he leased the house from was enough to cool his blood. He respected the late Professor, and that courtesy extended to his widow. The arrival of this fresh faced girl was unexpected and troublesome. He had women, of course, but none exclusive. At first he had been tempted by the idea of luring the girl upstairs. An opera singer! He could have had a grand time exploring her young flesh, if she hadn't kept mentioning the old woman.

Otto frowned at his beer. She was an opera singer, yes, but he was used to more experienced women in any case. One look at her and he couldn't even imagine kissing her, let alone doing more. One outburst from those operatic lungs and he was certain to go deaf. Some use giving in to lust would do him, if he could not hear the advance of an enemy in the sure to come war.

"Finish your sandwich, little Miss, then you had best be going. You do have a hotel, do you not?"

Christine's face fell, even as relief fluttered through her. "Oh, yes," she lied, praying he had forgotten her confession of being robbed.

Otto had not forgotten it, but chose to ignore it. Her welfare was not his business, though before he showed her to the door he pressed some money into her hand and ordered her to hire a cab to take her to a rooming house.

# - # - # - # - # - #

For two days Christine stayed in her room, frightened and alone. Once again, the urge to send a letter to Madame Giry was overwhelming, but Christine was reluctant to admit defeat. On the third day, with the small amount of money from Otto Wuertemberger dwindling, she returned to his residence and asked for the address to Mamma Valerius in Italy.

And then remembering the vague plans she had made to rejoin the stage, and in desperate need of work, Christine walked to the Berlin State Opera to inquire if they were holding auditions for singers or even dancers. She certainly didn't expect anything prestigious, at least not until she could establish herself in the strange city. With a disinterested snort, the managers directed Christine to the stage where auditions for _Tristan Und Isolde_ were just finishing up.

Christine entered the theater like a lamb gazing at a new patch of clover. It wasn't the Populaire, but the grand magnificence was no less wondrous. She heard the music well before she entered the stage area, and watched with growing excitement as a baritone performed a particularly difficult passage. She had missed it; God she had missed it terribly. It wasn't the same, nothing ever would be, but with a determined set to her heart she approached a wiry built man who was directing the orchestra.

"Herr Orchesterfuhrer?" Christine interrupted in hesitant German when the orchestra came to the end of the movement.

"Yes?" He spun around, a man who did not look as if he were very patient, especially at being interrupted.

"I...I am l-looking for employment..."

His gaze took Christine in from head to toe, and Christine shifted, embarrassed at her state of dress. Quickly she explained her situation, stammering far more times than she wished.

"And your experience?" he demanded imperiously.

"I was a singer at Opera Populaire, a chorus girl, a member of the ballet troupe, and I was prima donna for a very short while," Christine said, not elaborating on the circumstances.

The man's mouth tilted slightly. "Heaven's, young lady, I hope your singing voice is better than your speaking one."

Several members of the orchestra chuckled, and Christine blushed bright red. "Of course. I had a wonderful teacher, Monsieur. I am simply nervous." And starving, and frightened out of my mind. But Christine could see herself working here, perhaps until Mamma Valerius returned, or until she had enough money to travel to Italy to join Mamma Valerius there. The comfort of the theater called to her unlike anything else. Even greater than the desire to return to Madame Giry was the surprising need to work and prove to herself that she was indeed capable of living independently. After the embarrassment Madame Bullard dealt her, Christine knew she had to do something.

"Ah, well, child, go up on stage and let us hear you sing."

Christine beamed and thanked him, thrilled at the opportunity to prove her worth. Even if she did not land a job as a singer, she could forever be thankful that he allowed her to try. But perhaps, she could always hope that the director would be as taken with her voice as Erik had been.

She curtsied in the center of the stage, and waited until he indicated for her to sing. It was at once disappointing to realize she could not be cast as lead singer in any case. These operas would be sung in German. Her only hope was to sing in French or Italian.

"Your name, Mademoiselle?" the director asked, flipping open a little book and wetting his quill with ink.

"Christine Daae," she replied without hesitation.

It took several moments for her to realize that the sudden uproar in the theater was laughter.

And they were all laughing at _her_.

# - # - # - # - # - #

"Felix, _do_ something!" Hyacinthe wailed ineffectively.

Raoul's father gazed at his son, standing in the hall with a bag at his feet and steel in his gaze. "I am sorry, dearest, there is nothing I can do."

"I will be back soon," Raoul said carefully.

In all the time since Christine had been gone, he'd said little to his parents about her absence. It had not been possible to keep from him the circumstances of Christine's departure, and when the truth finally came out, though not in the greatest detail, Raoul expressed disappointment, not anger with his parents.

"Please don't leave, son!" Hyacinthe said, imploring him to stay. "That girl is not worth this!"

"I must go," he said firmly, and then he was gone.

Felix stared after him with sad eyes. He had hoped once the Daae girl was gone, that would have been the end of it. If he'd been a little more clever, and more fond of lying, this would not have happened. Since the time Christine had come to his home, she had been nothing but a disaster waiting to happen.

"Oh, Felix!"

"Do shut up," her husband said harshly, and turned on his heel.

The sound of his wife's footsteps following him into the study grated on his ears. Normally they had a genial relationship, if dispassionate. Hyacinthe had a lover, he had his own, and they had not shared a bed since Raoul had been in parochial school.

"What will we do?" Hyacinthe whispered, almost to herself. "First talk of his buying another commission, and now he's off to drag that girl back here."

Felix snorted. "There are worse things than having a decorated war hero for a son. Perhaps it would outweigh the scandal if he marries that harlot."

"No, no, no! I want him safe, and he should be pursuing the daughters of my friends, not that selfish, ungrateful theater trash! Why, with all this talk of war, of Napoleon bringing it to our very doorstep-"

"Nonsense! The Prussian army will never get close to Paris!" Felix declared. "Hell, they will not even make it into France! If we go to war, I daresay we will take Berlin for ourselves!"

"Oh, Felix, stop! The Prussians have already defeated Austria. You don't think I know anything about these things, but I do. I'm not sure Napoleon will be able to defend us."

"Hmph," Felix said, dismissing her feminine notions entirely. What did a woman know of war that a man did not?

Germans coming into Paris? Felix smiled the first true smile in days at the very idea.

_--',--',--_

_"Daae?!? Did she say her name was Christine Daae?"_

Laughter roared through the orchestra pit, and Christine merely stood there, baffled beyond belief. The chatter of German voices was astounding, and yet their tone and words were felt deeply in her heart. They were laughing at her, but in God's name why?

"I...I don't understand!" she said, raising her voice over the thunderous racket. "Why are you laughing?"

"Ah, Mademoiselle!" The director wiped his eyes. "You truly pulled our legs good, you did! Now come, tell us your real name!"

"That is my real name!" Christine replied indignantly. "I am Christine Daae. I am a singer from Paris! My father was a violinist from Swe-"

She broke off as the laughter thus increased, turning into jeers and hoots, until at long last she trailed away from center stage.

"Tell us, where is your Ghost?" someone shouted, and the inquiring voice was joined by a dozen others, all asking to know whether she might be hearing her Ghost now.

Christine froze then, ice sinking into her stomach. They thought she was mad, or worse, they thought she had made it all up. She sent them all a scathing glance before making her way down the stairs.

"Wait, wait! We have not heard you sing!"

The roar of laughter that followed that was enough to drive Christine from the theater in tears. She fled up the narrow aisle and into the sunshine filled lobby, and did not stop running until she was blocks away from the laughter that echoed in her mind.

"Oh God, Oh God," she wept, brushing at her eyes and doing little to stem the flood of tears. It was too much, simply too much.

When she made it back to the hotel she would write Madame Giry and end this. Better that she submit to Erik or to Raoul than starve or face humiliation again.

At the thought of Erik, she paused on the sidewalk, her breaths growing more ragged. Was this burning feeling of rage and shame what he had felt? All his life, was this what he had lived with? Laughter, yes, she remembered him writing about the ridicule of the boys in Lille, where he had grown up:

_"I shall never be mocked again, not for my face, not for anything..."_

_# - # - # - # - # - # - # - #_

Christine entered a small shop near her rooming house with the intent of buying paper for a letter to send Madame Giry, and she imagined the reunion that would take place when she returned to Paris. Where would Erik go if she were to return? Back to the opera house? The memory of that cold, dank place made her shiver, and she balked at the idea. She had hurt Erik enough, and he had had to survive far worse than what she had recently been subjected to. It was high time she got over her fears and took charge of her own life. No, she wouldn't return to Paris yet; there were other opera houses where she could find work.

Instead, Christine bought a small journal and scurried back to her room just as the manager spotted her to inquire after his payment for the night. She'd hated leaving Cologne without paying for her room at the inn, but if she hadn't she never would have been able to buy the ticket to Berlin.

Once inside the relative safety of her room she locked the door and shoved a chair beneath it. With any luck the manager would let her stay an additional night and she might be able to find employment with another theater. But not as a singer. No, she would do something else to earn the money to leave Berlin. She would not use her own name the next time she auditioned either, though she deplored the idea. But she couldn't risk being forever linked with the Opera Ghost and the events at the Opera Populaire. Once she had settled somewhere, she would write both Mamma Valerius and Madame Giry to let them know where she had gone.

Christine strode to the bed and shoved her hand beneath the mattress, searching for Erik's journal she had hidden there. She laid her newly purchased journal beside it, and pondered the reason why she'd impulsively stolen his and now bought one of her own.

"I've never kept a journal before," she murmured, caressing the fine worn leather of Erik's then the cheap covering of hers. With a little searching around the room she located a forgotten pencil and sat down to write.

# - # - # - # - #

_Cologne, June, 1870_

"But you did see her?" Raoul asked, growing frustrated with the magistrate.

"I said that I did," the man said, glaring at him. "I told you, she came in here to report something was stolen, but she left a couple of days later. I haven't seen or heard from her since."

"What was stolen?" Raoul asked anxiously.

After weeks of looking, searching, Raoul had finally found a lead. Several people remembered seeing her, but none could precisely recall ever speaking to Christine Daae, and the house in Berlin had been empty. The neighbors said that a German officer by the name of Otto Weurtemberger had leased it from Mama Valerius, who was in Italy, but they could not recall seeing a young girl.

Frustrated, Raoul had backtracked all the way to France and stopped at every rail depot that the train stopped at, asking about her. Finally in Cologne he was getting somewhere, but this buffoon of a magistrate was being ridiculously unhelpful.

"Money. She said that her companion took off with all of her money," the magistrate said gamely. "We did indeed find a woman matching her description, but when we went to question the Mademoiselle, she had left the city - without paying for her room at the inn, by the way."

"Where is the woman now? Her companion...a Madame Bullard...?"

"Indeed, that was her name. Without Mademoiselle Daae to confirm that she was indeed the missing companion, I let her go," the magistrate said, silently adding that it had been more than worth his time to take a little of that money for himself.

"You said Mademoiselle Daae left Cologne?" The magistrate nodded vigorously, likely hoping that he too would leave in pursuit of her. "Where did she go?"

"Why, to Berlin!"

Raoul pressed a hand over his eyes, and groaned. "I've been to Berlin. No one has seen her. The woman who was supposed to be waiting for her has gone to Italy. I pray that you are mistaken and she returned to Paris."

The magistrate frowned, intrigued by the mystery, even if it were a blasted Frenchman dragging him into it. "Didn't you say she was an opera singer?"

"Former opera singer!"

"Well," the magistrate shrugged carelessly, "even former opera singers must eat. Why don't you try the theater in Berlin?"

"Of course," Raoul whispered, his heart skipping a beat. "Of course she would go there."

He slapped the edge of the magistrate's desk in sudden joy, and smiled for the first time in days. She would be there, he thought firmly. Singing, dancing, she would be there and he would find her safe.

And before they returned to Paris, Raoul would make Christine his wife.

* * *

R & R Ladies! 


	17. That Quick Hand of Fate

_Berlin, Late June, 1870_

Within a week Christine had blisters on every finger, her palms, and her feet. Rough scrapes had developed on each knee, and Christine could feel the screaming protest of every muscle in her back. Yes, she had found employment. Even employment in a theater, though cleaning the floor of an opera house was not exactly what she had in mind. The worst part was, she was no longer even on the inside. The household staff manager had relegated her to the front steps of the opera house, outside in the heat of Berlin because she'd spilled a bucket in the lobby. The marble steps burned her skin and the glare reflecting from the sun blinded her. She was not even at the magnificent Berlin State Opera, but the Linden, a much smaller theater, though just as popular. But if she was careful, within a few weeks Christine would be able to earn enough money for a ticket to Dresden where they had a fine opera house. Using her mother's name, Daina, and an alteration of her first name, Christensen, a cleaning girl had been born. Christine had decided that that name would also be her future stage name as well.

"Daina, are you finished with that yet?"

Christine glanced up to see the staff manager, Frau Helton descending the steps. "No, Frau," she said wearily. "I was almost, but...," She pointed to the evidence of vomit on the steps, "...there was a sick man here earlier."

"Well, finish quickly! I have a task for you!"

With that the woman marched back inside, the severe lines of her dress stretched over a thick frame. Christine closed her eyes, exhausted beyond her imagination. It was quite humbling to realize she'd never given a second thought to the women who had cleaned the opera house. She'd danced until her toes ached, leapt until her muscles were strained, even dislocated the occasional finger or toe and had them pushed back into place by Madame Giry, but never had she endured anything like this.

She swiped at the marble, tears hitting the steps in the same rhythm as her swipes. In the two months since she had been in Berlin she had been "let go" from one other theater. The managers had discovered her taking bread and meat from the kitchen, and promptly fired her. The time it it had taken her to find another job had eaten into the paltry money she had managed to save for a ticket to Dresden. She was lucky she found this job when she did, and she only hoped no one would report her as a thief. She'd been here for three weeks now and there was nothing to indicate her employment was in jeopardy, unless of course she continued to move slowly and to make mistakes.

Summoning a strength she didn't know she had, Christine finished wiping the steps and groaned loudly. Tossing her rag into the filthy water, she dragged her feet back into the opera house, being sure to keep out of sight of patrons.

When she entered the kitchen, the smell of rich, gravied meat was nauseating. After cleaning up the remnants of beer and what she was certain had been corned beef from the front steps, the last thing she wanted to look at was food.

"We are short a serving girl," Frau Helton barked, holding out a starched apron. "Clean that vomit off your dress and put this on."

"But...," Christine glanced at the clock. It was nearing seven in the evening. She wasn't supposed to work evenings, and this would be her third night this week. "I'm..."

"You're what?" Frau snapped. "If you do not put this on, you can find yourself another place to work. It is bad enough that Magdelina has run off, and with one of our stable boys at that. I do not need to listen to the sassy mouth of a foreigner. You should be lucky the managers are letting you stay in these troubled times!"

Without another word Christine took the apron and found an empty powder room. The face that stared back from the mirror was not her own. Blue shadows on pale skin made her seem death-like, and the cracks in her lips had grown painful in recent days. The beautiful girl who had left Paris was gone, and in her place was a tired, exhausted woman.

The only thing that kept Christine from contacting Madame Giry was the feeling she was left with at night before she went to sleep. Though exhausted, there was an odd sense of pride in what she had done. She had taken charge of her own life and was beginning to let go of the past. She barely had time to think of the events that had led her here. A fact that was welcoming and startling all at once. She did not cry over hurting Erik anymore; she cried because she missed him and the Giry's, but at least the painful guilt did not haunt her now.

Her current situation might not be what she had hoped for, but at least she was in a routine again. And many of the other workers were polite to her, even if a little cool because of her mysterious origins. The theater had provided her a cot along with about a dozen other cleaning girls, most of them much younger than she was, and so long as she did not take extra food, then she was given three meals a day. It was not much, but it kept her alive, and allowed her to save almost all of what she earned.

On her last trip to Mamma Valerius's she had seen Otto Weurtemberger and he had regretfully informed her that he was leaving for duty. In kindness, he advised her the best thing for her safety would be to leave Germany and find Mamma Valerius, but as he did not offer her any money (and she would not have felt right taking it), then Christine knew she would have to simply earn it.

When she returned to the kitchens, there were a dozen servants scurrying around, and Frau Helton in the center calling out orders with a merciless tone. The woman was a sterner, meaner version of Madame Giry, and Christine could not help but admire the energy that radiated from her. She knew the woman was awake at least an hour or two before everyone else, watched over every shift, and stayed awake hours after everyone went to sleep.

"Not that, you foolish boy! Take these to Herr Landvatter immediately! Stand up straight and fill those glasses! If I find one hair in that dessert I will take a strap to your back!" Frau Helton shouted. "You, girl, straighten your apron and get moving!"

It took Christine a moment to realize the woman was speaking to her, and she immediately obeyed, though she was uncertain of the results. A silver tray filled with meat, what appeared to be corned beef in fact, was thrust into her hands, and she was sent out to serve the performers, who were celebrating the impending success of the new opera.

# - # - # - # - # - #

Glittering gowns, candlelight, music, it was bittersweet to serve the crowd that gathered there. Christine was given a table of less importance than others, but she could see the brilliant flame of red hair which announced loudly the prima donna. Amused, Christine wondered if there were some unspoken code that said all diva's must have fiery tresses. Although Carlotta changed hers at every opportunity through the use of wigs, beneath every ounce of makeup and false strand of hair was a very beautiful Italian woman, with hair the color of an Irish woman.

Christine drifted close to the prima donna occasionally, intrigued by the trilling laughter and the scent of heavy perfume. It was a dream to be near the diva Augusta Crismon, for Christine was reminded of what she one day hoped to achieve. She still very much wanted to sing, to dance, to live. The public's admiration was secondary to the thrill of singing impossibly high musical notes with beauty and clarity. Unfortunately for Christine, she continued to day dream as she wearily served a gentleman his plate.

"Oh!" she squeaked as she felt something pinch her behind. Several members of the cast stared at her, but it was the leering grin of the man who pinched her bottom that she most noticed. Christine thought she recognized him as the alternate male lead, though without the makeup it was difficult to tell. "How dare you!"

"Servants are not to speak to the guests!" he commented, his face stained red both from embarrassment and from the amount of alcohol he'd consumed. "I'll have to teach you manners, girl," he said, rudely grabbing Christine's breast.

With a yelp of pain, Christine slapped him. "Vous, vous le batard!"

"How dare you, you little French whore," he screamed at Christine as she wrenched herself free of his grasp and fled back to the kitchen. "You'll be fired for this! I'll have you reported as a spy!"

Tensions had already been high in the theater, and Christine had felt the unease of the people working around her because of her stuttering German. Now as word of her French insult hurled at one of their own actors spread like wildfire among the help, Christine was besieged upon entering the kitchen. Angry faces closed in upon her, and she backed away, stumbling against a counter piled high with dirty dishes. A chatter of accusations filled her ears, demented truths that spewed out of unwise mouths.

"What is going on?"

The voices ceased for a moment at Frau Helton's bellow, and the only sound was the girl crying in the middle of a circle of people. Without hesitating Frau Helton barged through the crowd and stared down at Christine. In a matter of seconds the chatter had begun anew, until the reasons behind it were revealed, and the staff manager was once again shouting for silence.

"Get back to work!" Frau Helton snapped, and promptly towed Christine out of sight with a rather masculine feeling hand clamped around the back of her neck.

"Please...," Christine wailed, stumbling with the haste with which Frau Helton propelled her out of the kitchen. "I...I just want to work! Please don't fire me!"

"It cannot be helped," Frau Helton said abruptly. "I will not tolerate such insolence and rudeness!"

"I-I'm so-sorry!"

They came to a stop in the dormitories, and Frau closed the door behind them. "It is too late for apologies." She frowned slightly. "Are you truly French then?"

"No," she whispered, her eyes solemn. "I really am Swedish, but I lived in Paris for most of my life."

Frau gave a shrug. "Still, I cannot help you now. Gather your things, I must escort you out of here."

"B-but...I have no where else to go! I came to Berlin to live with Mamma Valerius, but she's gone to Italy!"

Frau's eyes narrowed. "Valerius? Do you mean Professor Valerius's widow?"

"You know her?" Christine asked, desperate hope blooming in her eyes.

"Not personally." Frau sniffed. "She is a patron of this theater."

"She's my Godmother. I was supposed to come live with her in Berlin, but my companion stole my money and then Mamma Valerius had gone to Italy when I finally got here." Christine pressed her hand over her eyes, stopping the tears. "Please, Frau Helton, help me..."

"You cannot stay here," Frau said, frowning again. "I am sorry, but you need to leave the theater immediately. If the managers hear of this, and I am sure that they will, my employment could be terminated. My only hope is to get you out of this theater quickly. Get your things."

Christine moved slowly, folding her meager belongings into Erik's leather satchel, and took a final look around the dormitories. It was almost like saying farewell to the Populaire as she followed Frau Helton out to the lobby.

That is, of course, except for the laughter that chased and taunted her from the employees who came to bid her adieu.

# - # - # - # - # - #

_I followed him up the stairs, the creaking wood a grating sound on my sensitive ears. He had promised me good things. A warm bed, a warm meal, money, and protection for a few nights. Good things, indeed. Alone in this dark city, I could see no other alternative but to submit myself to this stranger, this Frenchman who had caught me staring hungrily at his plate from outside a dingy Berlin cafe window. It lingered in my mind that if he had been a kind man, an honest man, he would have at least offered me a meal before he took what he truly wanted from my body. From my heart._

_"This way, mademoiselle," he said, breaking into my thoughts of rationalization. _

_I couldn't look him in the eyes and had not since his hesitant proposition. I tried to keep in mind that this was just a man. Like Raoul. Like Erik. Perhaps like my father. He could have a family somewhere, a wife, a daughter. He was not a monster for offering me money for sex. He was just a man, and there were a million like him. There was nothing disgusting or unmannerly about him. He seemed perfectly normal, and I knew the act that would soon follow the shedding of clothes was one that many women in my position would follow._

_Tears pricked at my eyes as I accepted that I had become another of the multitude. I had accepted my role – my fate – as calmly as I had accepted the rest of my life. Singing was not to be my dream. It was this. A dark room above a printing house, my virginity lost as I heard the presses below belching out pages for readers around the country. _

_The man lit a candle, and I gazed numbly at the bed, a small metal frame with white chipped paint and no sheets. This was my fate. This was the way I would lose my innocence._

_"Mademoiselle?"_

_I turned at the sound of his voice, my breath hitching as I saw that he had already removed his coat, and was working on his brown waistcoat. The tattered dress I wore was my only protection from him, yet as he discarded more layers, I could feel the edges of hysteria setting in. My calm facade was diminishing. The numbness was receding, and in the place of acceptance I felt frightened._

_"Please monsieur...I..."_

_"Do you wish to eat?" he asked, proving my thoughts of him being selfish and dishonest. No man that I had ever known would have said such a thing. A swift and overwhelming longing for Erik flooded through me, and I wished for the strength and beauty of his voice. It amazed me that I did not consider Raoul, who had been my lifeline for safety – but Erik – who had given me more love and protection than anyone I'd known._

_My stomach rumbled at his question, troubling me further. I could not survive much longer, but the memory of Erik had pitched me into an unknown realm where I remembered the violence he had shown, and the reasons behind it. He had survived his life by fighting the odds. The shelter of love had never touched his life, and yet it never stopped him from believing, reaching, trying to find it. _

_After the disturbing things I had read in his journal, I knew that Erik had survived because he had never given in. He had never accepted his fate. He had railed against it, and very nearly won. My heart ached as I realized the role I had taken in destroying his spirit. I had not understood the will to survive. Not until now. _

_The man approached me, ignoring the panic on my face, and lowered his head for a kiss. I jerked my head around, trying to escape the intimacy that he craved, but he grasped my chin firmly and forced me to look at him. _

_"This will be over soon," he promised, his eyes not evil but uncaring and dispassionate. _

_He lowered his head again, covering my mouth with his own as I trembled. My stomach ached with hunger and fear as he pushed me towards the bed, and the moment I felt my legs touch the metal rail, full scale nausea hit me. I gagged, most of it water, and it erupted onto the front of his shirt and my dress. He grimaced in disgust and stepped back._

_"Well, I wasn't expecting this to be easy," he said, staring unpleasantly at me for a moment. "Still, I said this wouldn't take long. Remove your dress. I'll just take you from behind."_

_"No."_

_I was surprised that the word could come out, as I needed to vomit again. I covered my mouth in humiliation with shaking hands, grateful that he wasn't going to strike me or punish me. But behind? Behind what? I didn't understand, and yet whatever it meant, I knew I wasn't going to like it._

_The man sat on the bed and removed his shirt then bent down to remove his shoes. _

_"If this isn't what you want, then leave. But you won't get a pfennig from me," he replied._

_My eyes were drawn to the candle, sputtering light into the darkness, casting shadows in a room that was slowly becoming a nightmare. Then lower, I saw what held the candle. A heavy brass angel, the sort that I had seen in the opera house. Without hesitating I grasped it, and slammed it over his head as he was occupied with the laces of his shoes._

_He grunted with pain as he fell to the floor, his hands automatically going to his head. I had not even knocked him out, likely a result of being a woman with no idea how to do such a thing – and from nearly a week living on scraps of food. I hit him again, but he only groaned louder._

_Before I could fathom a reason, I felt it - that will to survive. That instinct I had not thought I would possess, until remembering the unloved boy who had grown into the same unloved man. Erik, in his suffering, had taught me the most valuable lesson a woman in my position could: how to fight against my fate._

_While the man lay on his floor, bleeding and groaning, I found his pocketbook nestled protectively within the folds of his coat. _

_What I found inside made me sick with shame and anger. _

_He had promised me the contents in addition to a meal. The contents of his wallet, a sum he had said would be fair for what I was willing to offer._

_I cried that night on a stomach that wasn't quite full, but was no longer aching with hunger. I cried because I had agreed to sell my priceless innocence for a few marks._

* * *

_Long chapter ladies! You know what to do! It's also holiday season, and you know what that means?!? I'm going out of town on Friday. If you're good I'll throw you a bone before then!_


	18. Lonely Child

"Did you receive anything today?" Meg asked her mother anxiously as soon as she made it through the door.

Erik was right behind her, shouldering through with easy grace and calmness that belied the pain and fear he felt in his heart. No one had heard a peep out of Christine since she had left Paris, and several telegrams sent to Mamma Valerius in Berlin had gone unanswered. He'd only been gone two hours now, as Meg's rehearsals had run late, and he'd nearly dragged her exhausted body home to find out if word had been received.

"There was nothing," Bernadette said vacantly.

"What about from the Vicomte?" Erik pressed, knowing she had intended to see his parents today. "No word from him either?"

"He has not returned from his quest to find her."

Erik's heart clenched. "Then they have eloped, of course."

"You don't know that, Erik," Meg said softly.

"And neither do you," he replied, closing his eyes. "I would stake my life that he has charmed your friend Mamma Valerius and taken Christine somewhere exotic. They are undoubtedly basking beneath a Mediterranean sun this very moment on their honeymoon."

"Mamma Valerius would have at least let me know that Christine made it to Berlin," Bernadette said, moving into the sitting room. "She knows I love that girl. I asked her in the first telegram to send word once Christine arrived. The Vicomte didn't pursue her until two weeks later."

Erik frowned, thinking. "Did you receive word that Mamma Valerius was indeed still living in Berlin? Doesn't she have an estate somewhere else?"

Bernadette paled. "I had not even considered that she wouldn't be home."

Immediately regretting the voice of that concern, he patted her shoulder. "She was sickly, wasn't she? I doubt she would be traveling. I'm sure she was home, and they are just having a grand time. I would still wager that she has married de Chagny and is reluctant to send word home...," he paused, swallowing at the idea of Christine already married, "...with the announcement of her nuptials."

But of course, Christine was not married as Bernadette discovered a few days later. On a day in mid – July she fainted in the presence of the Vicomte de Chagny himself – when he informed her that Christine was nowhere to be found.

It was also the day that France declared war on the Prussian Empire.

_# - # - # - # - # - # - #_

"Don't tell Erik."

The whispered words from the half conscious woman sent unease through Raoul de Chagny. Bernadette was slumped against the sofa, her face moist from nausea that threatened to disgrace her in front of the well groomed aristocrat. Never in his life could Raoul imagine this stern woman fainting, yet when he had told her that Christine was missing, she'd simply slipped away. He'd arrived in Paris during the predawn hours, mere moments after the streets came alive with the news of war.

It was not widespread panic for Paris, but more of a grumbling among the population that they were yet again in another fight. And since the country of France had been fighting since it's inception, no one was really surprised to find it in yet another skirmish. All because Napoleon could not keep his hooked nose out of matters in other countries!

"Madame, are you okay?" Raoul asked gently. "Shall I get Meg?"

"No!" Madame Giry sat up too quickly, and slumped back to her chair. "No, please, I need to know what happened to Christine."

Raoul blinked at her. "Madame, I do not know. I was hoping to return and find news of her existence. I have found nothing. Not a trace. Mamma Valerius, who is in Italy, has not seen her, and seemed very surprised to learn that Christine was going to visit her."

"Oh, dear God," Bernadette whispered, pressing a hand over her mouth. "No, no, no."

"You haven't heard from her then?"

Bernadette stared at him incredulously. "If I had heard from her, do you think I would be this distraught!?!"

"You mentioned Erik," Raoul said lightly, then cleared his throat. "You don't suppose..."

"Erik does not have Christine! I put her on a train myself!"

Raoul's eyes narrowed. "Then Erik is in Paris? Are you certain? Madame, I think I should go back to the Opera and investigate."

"Do what pleases you," Bernadette murmured, weakened by the idea of them confronting one another. "But Erik must not know she is truly missing."

"You don't believe he is responsible...?"

"I know that he is not. He thinks she is with you," Bernadette whispered, imagining his raw grief. "And perhaps that is for the best."

"I am not giving up," Raoul said quietly. "I found a trace of her in Cologne. The companion you sent with her stole the money that she carried, and the magistrate said she traveled on to Berlin. That means she was looking for Mamma Valerius. I had thought...perhaps Erik intercepted her."

"Erik is in Paris," Bernadette repeated, "but he is better left alone. Do not bring that madness back, Vicomte de Chagny."

"Did he ever leave? Perhaps Christine returned to Paris and went willingly to him?"

Bernadette shook her head, "I could only hope that were true. At least then she would be safe. But no, it is not possible. The gendarmes have flushed him from his home. He comes and goes as he pleases, but is at risk when trying to move about. They think there are spies beneath every tunnel in Paris, and perhaps it is true."

"We are at war with Prussia," Raoul said quietly. "I can go back to Italy, travel from there to the German border and search every train depot and opera house between Venice and Prague. I will go back to Berlin if I must."

Bernadette stared at him, regretting her haste in judging the boy. She had failed Christine far more than Raoul had – sending her off to an unknown destination and dark future. "Please find her," she whispered tearfully, fearing the worst. "Bring her home. No matter what, you must bring her home to me."

_# - # - # - # - # - # - #_

By sharing a compartment on the train with several other people, Christine managed to stretch her pitiful haul to cover the ticket to Dresden and a cheap room once she arrived there. The fact that she had made it to the second round of auditions helped to assuage Christine's disgust at what she had nearly done to get there. Erik would have been furious at the state of her voice, but she done the best she could to keep it in shape in the limited time she had had free in Berlin. Christine hoped that it would be enough to actually land her a part in the opera. As she took her place on the stage and prepared to sing once more for the conductor and the managers, Christine listened to the idle chatter around the stage, a raucous blend of English, German, and many other languages of the dozens of hopefuls who were also auditioning.

At first she did not catch the "Ooooooooeeeeee," that filled the air from somewhere behind her.

It was only when the voice was accompanied by her name, drawn out in a ghostly manner, did Christine look up.

"Chriiiissstiiiiiineeeeee...Ooooooeeeeee..."

Glancing around, Christine noticed everyone had stopped what they were doing and were looking for the source of the sound. The flutter of white suddenly caught her eyes, and she felt her heart stop when a figure draped in a white sheet stumbled out from behind the curtains.

"Chriiiissstiiiiineeeeee Daaaaaeeee...I am the Opera Ghooooosssst! You must sing my opera for me!"

Christine gasped, sick with fear and dread that her past had once again caught up with her. "My name is Daina Christensen," she said bravely.

The sheeted figure lifted his disguise, revealing one of the members of the orchestra. "You mademoiselle are Christine Daae, the girl the Opera Ghost in Paris kidnapped!"

The silence rang in her ears, and she caught the confusion on everyone's face. "No," Christine denied immediately. "You are mistaken, Sir!"

The man advanced, circling her while continuing to stare. "I never forget a face," he said in a low, threatening tone. He edged closer then reached out to touch her hair. "Who could forget this regrettably untamed creature? This bewitching little...witch."

"Don't touch me," Christine said, brushing his hand away.

He pulled slightly on her hair, but let go. "You are Christine Daae, and you are French, aren't you? This name...Daina...you made it up! You're pretending to be Swedish! Do you deny it?"

"Yes! I am Swedish," Christine insisted, her face coloring. "I...I am Christine..."

A satisfied smile graced the man's eyes, and cold fear slid beneath her skin as she realized that no one would come to her defense.

"You were the Opera Ghost's mistress, and now Paris is sadly lacking its theater."

The man reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a worn newspaper clipping. "J'etais la bas," he said coldly as he waved the piece of newspaper under Christine's nose.

Unable to defend herself, Christine merely stared at him. There was nothing she could say that would explain what had happened; nothing would make sense – it barely made sense to her. The Epoque had produced it's own version of the events, most of which Raoul had kept from her. There was really no telling what the newspapers in Germany had made of it.

"Do you still hear the voices?" the man asked in a low tone, his voice filled with mocking laughter. "Are you hearing them...right now...?"

"Leave me alone," Christine whispered, looking imploringly past him to the conductor and a few of the others there for the auditions who had befriended her that week. No one would look at her. They stared, but would not meet her eyes. "Please, I just want to audition, to prove myself. Please just leave me alone."

"Not yet, girl," the man circling her said, his tone filled with sinister delight. "Your ghost isn't here with you now is he? Might we expect our theater to burn to the ground? You've already cost me my job once!"

"No!"

"You hear that, everyone? This is the chit who caused the Opera Populaire to be burned down! Do you see her denying it? She single-handedly brought down the diva Carlotta, and destroyed one of the most renowned theaters in the world!"

"No," Christine sobbed, but no one was listening. Refusing to let them see her break down, Christine stifled her tears and walked off the stage with her head held high. Mockery and insults followed her as she left the theater. They feared a repeat of the Paris disaster occurring in their beloved theater.

Christine made it all the way back to her rooming house before she gave into angry tears and cried until she had made herself sick. Laying on the coverlet, she blindly reached for Erik's journal, wondering if there were words in it to help steel her spine against such hatred.

# - # - # - # - # - # - #

_With painful longing I strive for perfection. Only for her – for Christine. I knew nothing of music theory until I met Bernadette, and it was not until I met Christine that I found a reason to pursue something. I had no purpose to my life. _

_Other men follow in the footsteps of their fathers. They become farmers...like mine...or bakers. Builders of houses, groomers of horses. I never had the chance to prove my worth; not until I met Christine. It was with shame that I realized I could teach her everything that I painstakingly learned, and it would not be enough. What a curious mind she has! I love the way she thinks, the way her little hands twist and strive for an answer to the Angel who waits expectantly for it. _

_I wish that she could know how much her nervous, careful answers mean to me. No one has regarded anything I say of importance. Perhaps one day she will outgrow me, and I will simply fade back into the darkness, but for now I will be the Angel. The one her father promised her; the one who loves her, and hopes for the same in return. Such innocent love cannot be wrong. I ask Bernadette constantly for guidance, but all she will tell me is I must do what my heart tells me. _

_My heart tells me that being near Christine is all that matters. I may never get the chance to meet her, face, shall we say, to face, but I know that should I choose to leave prematurely it will break her tender spirit and likely kill what remains of my own._

* * *

**A.N. : _"J'etais la bas" means: "I was there". Many thanks to rappleyea for digging this up!_**

I'm leaving tomorrow morning and won't be back for (gasp!) nearly a week and a half. I may have internet access, and I may not. It's a little iffy out in the boonies with wireless. If you don't hear from me then have a Happy Thanksgiving from your dedicated author who is under the influence of cold medicine.


	19. The Unnamed River Gives a Lesson

_Greetings from Kansas! I know some of you are a bit disappointed with lack of Erik, but rest assured that soon there will be quite a few of nothing but Erik. This part of the story has been finished for several months now, and the timeline requires me to keep up with Christine a little longer. But for those of you who are dying for Erik, I can tell you that I just finished writing his wedding night chapter (which was chapter 67 and 68) and boy did he have a good time with his mystery bride! _

_So see, you can commit yourself to this story and not have to worry about me abandoning it! I'm all but finished! It's still being betad of course, but I only have about ten more chapters to write, maybe twenty. Not really sure at this point. Anyway, R & R, and be grateful for free wireless in small Kansas towns._

* * *

_Paris - August, 1870_

Erik was finding little to occupy himself with other than worrying about Christine. He scoured the papers every day for a mention of news on Raoul de Chagny, hoping there might be some mention of the aristocrat. Never had he thought to take such an interest in the young man other than hatred, but he found himself desperately wishing for even a blurb of his name. Alongside it he also wanted to see Christine's, even if it was an announcement of their secret elopement. At least then he would know _something_.

There was nothing more than disturbing news of war. The way that Bernadette was moping around, Erik wondered if she knew more than she was letting on, but something kept him from asking. If he were honest with himself then he would admit he really believed Christine had married, and not that something had happened to her. The only other alternative was equally as painful to contemplate – that Christine had willingly broken all ties with everyone she had known in Paris. And if that were the case, it was entirely his fault.

A few weeks earlier Raoul de Chagny had somehow managed to slip into Paris and out again before Erik knew he'd returned, and Erik assumed it had been to bring news of marriage to his parents.

Meanwhile Bernadette was not if fact moping. She was secretly mourning, and deathly afraid to reveal what she knew of Christine's whereabouts. If Erik found out, he would do something foolish, and the escalating tension with Germany did little to ease her mind. She had sent a young, inexperienced French girl into the hands of the enemy, all alone. Mamma Valerius finally had sent a letter announcing she was returning to Berlin with all due haste, but the likelihood of receiving another one was inconceivable. If the Germans didn't intercept it, then her own countrymen would, and she would never know what had happened to Christine.

Guilt, fear and unhappiness gripped her tightly until Bernadette made herself ill. After spending a week in bed with an annoying summer cold, she summoned Erik to her side.

The worried expression on his face nearly made Bernadette smile, as it was concern for her this time and not Christine.

"I've never seen you sick before," he said, standing uncomfortably at the foot of her bed. He did not have to add that he had never been near a woman in her bedchamber – except for Christine – while she lay there defenseless. The nervousness was enough to put him off his food for a month, though with Meg's cooking it was often better if he didn't eat anyway. "When are you going to be better?"

Bernadette blew her nose and made an irritated sound. "Your concern for me is overwhelming."

"You know what I mean." Erik shifted his feet, gripping one hand with the other behind his back. "You've never been put down by a cold before. I don't like it."

"Well neither do I," Bernadette muttered, glaring into her handkerchief.

Erik watched her swipe at her face a few moments with a washcloth, the flush of her cheeks indicating she was still fevered. "Is it catching?"

"What?" she paused, then shook her head. "No, I don't think so."

"Then why did you call me in here?"

Bernadette closed her eyes and reclined against the headboard. She did not want Erik to know that Christine was missing, but every single day brought fear fresh into her mind. If Erik discovered the truth he would take off after her, and she dreaded him running into Raoul during the search, or worse, being captured and imprisoned. Even if the war had not started, Erik could not have simply gone in search of Christine as Raoul had. People would stare, whisper, and ultimately they would act on their suspicious natures. And Erik, bless him, would give them every reason to think the worst.

Bernadette opened her mouth to ask him for money to hire an investigator, but realized he'd immediately suspect something. Erik, suspicious of everything, would know that something else was going on. Already he'd been sulking since Meg let it slip that she'd seen Raoul de Chagny in Paris, even though Meg herself knew nothing of his visit. Erik stared at her, and she pretended to blow her nose, giving herself time to think.

"Well?" he asked impatiently. "If you don't need anything else, I'm working on a composition."

Bernadette waved him away with a vague flutter of her hand. Erik bowed with an inscrutable look on his face and walked out of the room, leaving Bernadette to ponder how she would get her hands on a portion of his money to hire a private investigator to find Christine. She certainly wasn't going to leave the girl's fate up to Raoul de Chagny!

_# - # - # - # - # - # - #_

_I left Dresden with far less than I had in my possession on leaving Paris. Novice thieves do not earn much, and I spent spent some of my ill gotten earnings to pen a letter to Madame Giry, letting her know all that had happened. I didn't know if it would reach her since a war had begun. From all accounts, the Germans were forming a blockade – and a letter to Paris may well have been considered suspicious. I realized that I now had two things to hide: my past, and being a French woman in a country at war with France. It would be safer for me to leave Germany entirely. I had enough money to purchase a ticket most of the way to Prague. When I disembarked to walk the remaining distance, I hoped to be lucky enough to perhaps beg a ride from a passing carriage. _

_As near as I could tell, I was a few day's walk from my destination, but it certainly did not make my mind rest easier. In the nights leading to my shameful attack on the man in his room, I had slept beneath some of Berlin's finest bridges amidst the scavenging of rats and the retching of drunks from above. I hid in darkness as a mole, knowing there was safety in not being seen, and dreading the chill that would send me to sleep. There was always the chance of being found, or worse, not waking at all._

_I staggered down the road for endless miles, not seeing the beautiful scenery and hoping for anyone to come along and give my aching feet a reprieve. As I plowed along, looking far worse than a beggar and smelling twice as bad, I was overcome with a sense of failure. I had no money, no food, no protection from the elements. I'd nearly given away that which was most precious to me, shaming my father's name in my desperation to feel comforted and safe, and then doing even worse – an act of violence to a stranger. Before leaving Berlin I had also heard of the war that would soon be ravaging my city, and raw anxiety governed a feeling of helplessness – I had abandoned my family in a time when they would need me._

_And yet, what comfort had I ever offered them? I was a constant worry to Madame Giry, always walking about with my head filled with dreams Erik had given me, and Meg had become another person in the months we had been apart. She was still so innocent, so trusting, and I was becoming more jaded with every day that dawned. Feeling bitterness and despair swamp me, I stopped on a bridge overlooking a nameless river, and I thought of stepping off the stone and meeting air; meeting my God. A tight fist closed around my stomach, around my lungs, squeezing until I could scarcely breathe. I no longer wanted to be miserable – starving and penniless, ridiculed and alone. _

_But just as quickly as that wild notion entered my mind, it was gone. Religion had been drummed steadily into me by my father, though it was often ignored in the days of adolescent gaiety. One thing I knew with certainty: I could not end my life like this. I could not leave this world never knowing if those I loved were surviving the war, and I could not die an undignified, cowardly death. Not when I had survived thus far._

_Just as I came to this startling conclusion, I heard a tremendous racket behind me, and turned to look just in time as a carriage was hurtling down the bridge. I had no time to scream as a team of horses bore down on me, nor to find purchase on the uneven surface of stone. There were no rails on the bridge, and in the dim light of coming evening, the driver paid no heed to the practically invisible wretch whose arms flailed uselessly in the air._

_No one witnessed my fall, and I shall never forget the moment my shocked body plunged into the deep, cold water some thirty feet below. _

_Looking back, I think the most terrifying thing was retaining consciousness. I might have lived forever without knowing what it felt like to be dragged under water and being unable to surface. Dark, earthy liquid filled my mouth and choked me, and I bobbed ineffectively for a moment before going down again._

_Down. Down. Down. _

_My feet finally touched the bottom, and I pushed with all my might, surging to the top. I opened my mouth and attempted to scream, but a crushing pain had seized my throat and lungs. I coughed instead, and grabbed blindly at a log that was floating past. _

_Teeth chattering, I held fast to my life – line, and lay my head along the knotted wood in exhaustion. When I opened my eyes, it was quite dark, and the soft gurgle of water filled my ears. I was lodged between two boulders, still holding onto my log. I could not feel the bottom with my feet and I was terrified of losing the only thing anchoring me to safety. I struggled against my fear, knowing if I stayed in the water I would surely die from the cold, and I wound my way slowly around the two large stones until I could at last feel a slippery, rocky path that led to a steep shoreline. _

_I could not help but laugh (was it madness, or irony?) at this new twist in my journey. For if God was not testing me, then surely the Devil was having a great chuckle over my misfortune._

_Perhaps it was no less than I deserved for my wickedness, but I was determined to live now more than ever. I would live, God willing, if I did not die on the banks of Hell, and I would fulfill my dream. _

_I slept there near the river and woke cold, stiff and in a severe state of uncleanliness. Though I abhorred the thought of climbing back into that water, I washed the mud out of my dress, my hair, and anywhere else it had landed. _

_Clean, but soaking wet, I backtracked over the rough terrain until I was below that fateful bridge. Praying to God that it was still there, I slowly climbed up the steep banks. God was merciful. My satchel was still lying next to the bridge, Erik's journal in it, the only thing of value I had left. I sent a prayer of gratitude heavenward, then started determinedly down the road that led to the capital of Czechoslovakia. _

_A woman on the train had told me of the beautiful, historic opera house in Prague, one that was even more prestigious than the Berlin State Opera - Mozart himself had even conducted there._

_How disappointing to find that they would not be holding auditions for several weeks! However, that beautiful palace of gold and red brought out more wicked schemes in my mind. I would do anything to work and live there, anything to recapture a fraction of my life in Paris! If I could not have the Giry's or Erik to protect me, I would lose myself in a behemoth opera house, safe in the darkness and light, in the passion of a grand performance. _

_Desperate, I lingered around the building for weeks, sneaking in at night and sleeping in vacant boxes, even going so far as to wander on the stage in the early morning hours. I stole food from the kitchens, dresses from the costume department, and listened to rehearsals from beneath the stage. I became something of a phantom myself, inspired by my teacher, driven by fear of starving or a repeat of my last days in Germany. _

_In truth I now think I was on the verge of breaking down. I was in a dazed state, wandering about Prague, begging for work when I wasn't at the theater. I took comfort in it's size, and felt guilt at what I stole from the opera company. I vowed to somehow make it up to them, appearing occasionally to inquire again if they needed someone to clean. I needed something to tide me over until I could once again pursue my dream of singing. The answer was always no._

_And then, in the last week of August, days before we received word that Napoleon had been defeated, the unthinkable happened._

_# - # - # - # - # - # _

Wind blew leaves down the empty street in front of her, and hunched against the cold, Christine felt it whip down into her bones, cutting through the narrow set of her shoulders and chilling even her fingers, which she had tucked up under her arms. The opera house would have been a wonderful, warm place to sleep, but upon returning from yet another unfruitful day searching for a way to support herself, Christine had found that the door that was usually left unlocked near the kitchens was sealed tight. No amount of cursing or praying had opened it, and after walking around the outside of the theater for an hour, she knew it was time to find shelter for the night.

Prague was still mostly unfamiliar to her, especially after sundown, and the language completely baffled her. Christine huddled closer to the dark, twisting street, wondering if she was going in the direction of the church, or if it was one more street over. Almost too exhausted to care, she cut through an alley, hoping to find a shortcut.

If she could find the river again, then she would see the church, but almost too late she heard the raucous sounds of a tavern, and the catcalls of a crowd of men. Light suddenly spilled into the alley as a wide, barn-like door was flung open, and a man stumbled out, nearly vomiting on her shoes. With a gasp, Christine backed away quickly, her eyes moving from the man to the stage inside where a woman was dancing with a feather boa – and nothing else.

"Pretty girl," a voice commented, and Christine looked up to see two men coming out of a smaller side door. "Is she new?"

"Never seen her," his friend answered. "Maybe she's looking for work. A touch thinner than I like them though."

"Hey, you. Girl. You looking for work?" The man snickered loudly. "No? I'll be gentle."

With horror Christine realized the hood had slipped off her face, and her unwashed hair had spilled out of the scrap of lace she'd used to tie it back. She glanced behind her, and there was nothing but darkness. Ahead of her was a faint light. The two men moved closer, causing her heart to explode in fear. With a cry, Christine bolted back the way she had come, seeking the safety of shadow. She made it no more than ten yards before the pounding of feet, and excited, masculine laughter reached her ears.

"Grab her!"

"No!" she screamed, just as a hand reached out and gripped her hair. Pulled backward roughly, Christine was slammed onto the filthy alley on her back. "No, messieurs! Please! Please, no!"

"What, we're not to your liking?" A guttural voice asked.

A hand grabbed her ankle, and Christine kicked out with the other foot, connecting with a leg. She crawled backward on her elbows, fighting madly as a male body covered hers.

The scent of whiskey and smoke filled her senses, along with the stench of his breath. "Get off me! Please! Don't do this, please!"

"Little French whore," the man snarled, curling a hand around her neck. "Hold her damn legs."

He backhanded her, effectively silencing her words, but he could not stop the scream which ripped from her throat, louder and clearer than anything she'd ever voiced. A fist to her cheek, and she sobbed loudly, but protested no more. Christine felt a hand up her skirts, rucking them around her waist and then a hand rudely clasped the secret space between her thighs. He bit her breast, and pain ripped through her again.

"Nice and firm," he whispered, then murmured a string of phrases that made absolutely no sense.

She would have preferred the man in Berlin to this – to rape. At least he'd been clean and gentle. At least he might not have killed her at the end of this brutal assault.

"Erik," she cried brokenly, trying to slam her legs shut. Someone was holding her ankle, and the brute between them was unfastening his breeches. Christine cried for her Angel, trying to escape, praying for his protection, for the avenging angel who'd never let her come to harm.

"Erik isn't here," the man replied with a laugh. "Don't worry, love. You won't remember his name when I'm done with you."

"Pig," Christine screamed hatefully, then spit in his face. "You'll have to kill me!"

She fought him violently again, and watched as his huge fist, flecked with her blood, was drawn back again.

"Hey! Leave her alone! I'm armed and I'll shoot you!" A voice...oh God, a voice, and it was coming closer, threatening them to leave her alone.

"Dammit," the man muttered, pushing her head down onto the pavement one final time before he raced off into the darkness.

Christine curled onto her side, sobbing in the quiet cold alley, all alone once more.

_I bled quietly on the rain slicked streets, my attackers fled into the night, chased by my apparent rescuer. Was my noble defender gone forever? Would I be forced to pick myself up and carry on? _

_No longer certain if I had the strength, or the will, I closed my eyes..._

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_P.S. You can also vote on which one of my stories you like the best on my profile. Thanks again!_


	20. A Baker, a Seamstress, a Feminist

_Berlin - September, 1870_

The streets of Berlin were unwelcoming and cold. Raoul sat next to Mamma Valerius in a coach that was taking them to the Berlin State Opera. He'd arrived in secret, a man who would not be treated kindly if his nationality were discovered. Two days ago he had received news that the Prussian army was at the gates of Paris, and that they would no doubt begin bombing the city soon. He needed to return as quickly as possible, though he would have to do so via Italy or sail around the coast to Brittany so he would not attract suspicion.

Raoul had to find out if his parents were safe. It might well be too late for them to have fled the city, as no one thought Paris would be reached by the Prussians. Of course, no one had thought Napoleon would fall at Sedan, but that had happened as well.

Raoul was searching one last time for Christine, in one last place - the Berlin Opera. If no one there had seen her, then he would leave the city and not return until the war was over. The odds of Christine's surviving were slim indeed, but if there was even a chance, then he had to follow that lead.

"We have arrived," Mamma Valerius announced. "Now remember, you are either mute or dumb, but you cannot speak, Vicomte de Chagny. I will not have my position here compromised by associating with a French aristocrat."

"Mute or dumb," Raoul repeated dutifully, and followed her into the opera house.

_# - # - # - # - #_

_Prague – Late September, 1870_

Frau Merkcle paused for a moment in sewing the newly fashionable woolen gown to watch her two young charges, their heads bent together in conversation. Honestly, the French girl hardly looked older than a child herself, Frau Merkcle thought. She shivered and crossed herself, thankful that her husband had decided to take the shortcut through the alley that night as he traveled between the two bakeries that he owned. In order to have the hot loaves of bread, the rich croissants, pastries and muffins ready for his customers' breakfasts, he had to leave their small but comfortable apartment in the middle of the night. It was just such a night a month ago that he had returned only an hour after he had left carrying the nearly unconscious French girl. Christine was bruised, sore and badly frightened, but her husband had assured Frau Merkcle that he had arrived in time to prevent any more serious, or irreparable damage.

"Sewing is harder than I thought it would be," Christine whispered to the scrap girl at her feet. Helga smiled shyly at her, but didn't say anything. Frau Merkcle was a warm and friendly older woman, but Helga remained terrified of losing her employment if she were caught dawdling. "When Frau hired me, I didn't know very much about sewing at all. The most that I'd ever done was repairing costumes in the opera house."

"Where you sang," Helga replied, keeping her voice low enough for Christine's ears only. At eight, she was far too young to be employed, but working here was preferable to the workhouse. Helga's parents could no longer care for her and had not wanted to send her to that horrid place. Instead, they had convinced Frau Merckle to employ her to sew scraps of lace on the edges of the undergarments. "You sang like an angel, and they let you dance in pretty dresses."

"That's right," Christine replied, smiling down at the little girl. "And one day I want to sing again." She tapped Helga's button nose. "But first I must be patient, and practice when I can. My voice will sound terrible if I don't keep it well trained."

Helga worried her lower lip as she sewed, glancing suspiciously over at Frau Merckle who was pretending not to listen to their non-conversation. "I want to be a dressmaker," Helga confided softly. "Like my mother was before she lost her sight."

Christine met Frau Merckle's gaze as the older woman's eyes filled with sympathy. Helga's mother had not only lost her sight, but she was not expected to live much longer, and her father had recently been injured in a fire at the lantern factory. At the same time she realized fate had been kind to Helga in joining her path with that of Frau Merckle, Christine also knew that life could have gone much worse for the little girl. The same fate Helga had narrowly escaped from could have been Christine's own so many years ago.

Frau Merckle was also kind enough to let Christine stay in a room above the shop for free. It was cramped, overheated, and filled with endless yardage of fabric, but to Christine it was a safe haven compared to what she'd slept in those last few days in Berlin, or the night she'd spent sleeping on the ground, wet and cold, between Dresden and Prague.

"You'll come for dinner again, won't you, Christine?" Frau Merckle asked, startling her out of memories she wanted to forget.

Christine bit her lip as she stared down at the seam she was working. "I can't continue inconveniencing you, Frau. Your husband may not like..."

"We like the company," Frau admitted. "My husband is not precisely known for his conversation skills. It is nice to have another woman to chat with."

Christine opened her mouth to argue, but her employer sent her such a pleading glance that Christine found she could not say no. Since nursing her back to health after the violent attack, Frau Merckle had deemed it her mission to thicken Christine's waistline and make her into a "sturdier" girl. Christine had not confided any part of her past, but the woman seemed not to care. As for Herr Merckle, well, he rarely glanced up from his plate to notice his wife, let alone that they'd had a guest every night for the past month. Christine had a hard time imagining the reserved, taciturn man as her rescuer. Frau Merckle had told Christine that if their apartment had had any extra space, she could have stayed with them. As it stood, Christine was already deeply indebted to both of them.

One glance at Helga's soft hearted eyes and Christine knew that the shop owner had a weakness for people in need of help. Or maybe it was because God had never blessed the Merckle's with children of their own.

Either way, Christine found herself agreeing to another meal with Frau Merckle and her silent husband.

_# - # - # - # - # - # - # - #_

_Paris - November, 1870_

Meg rubbed her hands together as the cold began to numb them. Practice had been canceled indefinitely because of the war, and she was afraid to begin the long walk home without Erik near. Strange how she had grown used to his silent form hugging the sidewalks behind her, or how she could expect him to reluctantly approach her should she stop and gaze into a candy shop. Sometimes she wanted to mention Christine and her disappearance, but there was a sadness in his eyes that always prevented her from doing so.

It was the same with her mother. At night Meg could hear her crying, and it made Meg even more frightened for Christine. Everything had changed and nothing could have stopped it. The sound of gunfire and the shaking of the earth as bombs hit the city kept them all awake at night, and lately she'd heard her mother and Erik discussing moving down into the basements of the theater. Now with the cancellation of ballet practice and the Comique closing it's doors, they were sure to do just that.

Meg pulled her cloak tighter around her, wondering how she could convince them both that it was a terrible idea without sounding rude. She knew that Erik missed his home, though she had no idea why. The one time Meg had been down there it had given her chills. Dampness, darkness, bats and rats - everything that people of any age or sex ought to avoid.

Still, the fighting which was taking place only a few miles away was giving her nightmares, and her home no longer felt safe. People in the streets were beginning to talk about a shortage of food, and prices had been steadily climbing since September when the Prussian army had arrived at the outer walls of the city. Shipments had ceased well over a month ago, making some goods already obsolete. The rich could still afford whatever they wanted, but the poor of the city were rumored to have taken to eating vermin.

The loud, clear voice of a woman drew Meg's attention down the street. Meg stared as a crowd of people gathered around a makeshift dais, and curiosity drew her nearer. For the last three weeks whenever she left the theater with Erik, a group of suffragette's who called themselves The Ladies Reform Society had been giving speeches in the streets of Paris.

Amidst the bombing and smoke billowing throughout the city, they were making a stand against the so-called injustices that women faced in modern day France. Her mother called it hogwash. Erik rolled his eyes at the mention of them.

Meg had so far been unable to hear but fragments of the speech, but today afforded her the opportunity to listen and watch.

"Let your voice free! Our role should not be as domestic slaves! We have minds, we have needs – desires! Do not let men treat you as foolish, incapable creatures! Know your own heart and never be oppressed!"

Shouts were heard among the cheers. Some people did not like what the woman was saying, and others were downright cruel in their suggestions. A few gendarmes stood nearby, watching but not seeming intent to act upon any specific orders.

"Let this serve as your warning! If the Prussian troops come into our city, they will take what they want from us. From men they will take money, power. From women they will take freedom and innocence. We must be strong! We must-"

"What the hell are you doing?" a voice whispered sharply in her ear.

Meg spun, facing Erik's golden eyes. "I..."

"Are you trying to give me heart failure? Come away from here now," he said, grabbing her arm and pulling her down the street. "Your mother is going to be furious when she hears of this. Why aren't you in the theater?"

"Practice was canceled," she said defensively, growing winded as he rushed her away from the crowd. "I was just listening."

"Those women would be arrested for what they are doing if there wasn't a war going on!"

"Arrested? For speaking out?" Meg asked, glancing back. "Why should they be arrested?"

"This is France, Meg. There needs to be little reason to be arrested in this country for not being meek and obedient. Haven't you read your history of our beloved country?"

Erik finally released her arm as they rounded a corner. Good Christ, he'd been less than three feet away from a crowd of people, and even less than that from a gendarme. His heart hadn't raced so hard since the night he'd freed that sneaky little bastard who'd stolen Christine's ring.

"I don't see what's wrong with them wanting to have rights," Meg protested. "Why should women have to be...domestic slaves?"

Erik rolled his eyes at the borrowed phrase. "Forgive me, Little Giry, but since when did you become an expert on serving a man? Do you actually know any _married_ women?"

"Well, no, but that doesn't mean she wasn't right! Do you know any married women?"

"You and your mother are all the females that I need right now," he muttered. "Don't go into a crowd like that again, Meg. The gendarmes do not have to treat you kindly because you are a woman, and the officials in this city do not like their authority questioned. You could be hurt, or worse, imprisoned. Trust me, it is not something you will find adventurous."

Meg scowled, glancing behind her at the women. "If it weren't for the stupid men who run this country, I would still be dancing."

"Say that a little louder please, as I dearly love the thought of a meeting with Madame Guillotine," Erik said, narrowing his gaze. "Come, I need to get you home before nightfall. We're going to be leaving soon. Your mother is worried to death that a cannon is going to land in her sitting room."

Meg clamped her lips shut and followed Erik home, but not before casting a longing glance back at the speaker, Madame Louise Michel.


	21. What Would Erik Do?

**Thanks to rappleyea for posting for me last Saturday, and everyone who reviewed and kept me entertained on my long ride home! I appreciate each and every review, and I know I got a lot of new people adding me to their favorites, so let's hear from you too! You can't hide anymore, LOL! I'm thankfully over my cold, but it remains to be seen if I will escape the flu that is spreading around my office like wildfire. My brain has been tired and I haven't even looked at my laptop in the last week. Hopefully I'll be over a severe case of writer's block sometime this year! Don't worry though, there are 70 + chapters to this story written, and almost 50 of them betad. If I finish early I may combine them heavily to avoid so many chapters. **_

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_Paris – Late November, 1870_

The shelling grew so close in the pre-dawn hours that the vibrations shattered the windows in the entire house. Weeks earlier Erik had advised Bernadette and Meg to begin sleeping fully dressed, and he had already taken anything of value – sentimental or otherwise – back to the opera's basements. When the pounding began and glass exploded into their bedrooms, hitting Bernadette as she slept, she woke up and cursed soundly after discovering herself in one piece. Bernadette promptly decided not to delay their move another moment.

Within two hours they had navigated the tunnels beneath the Populaire undetected, and arrived in Erik's former home.

"I know this is strange," he said, apologetic and yet secretly pleased to be home, especially with guests. He looked at Meg as he said it, noting her staring wide eyed at the surroundings. "I promise it can be quite comfortable..."

"Erik, it will be fine, and at least we should be safe here," Bernadette said tiredly. "Where is your kitchen, though?"

"Ah." He showed her the small cook stove and the well he had dug to keep items cool. "I have a small pantry. It is mostly stocked and should keep us from having to go above ground for at least a month if necessary."

Bernadette glanced over at Meg, then whispered, "If this war is not over soon, we had best develop a taste of cat. There is nothing left."

Erik grimaced. "They are talking about killing the animals penned at the zoo. Already I fear our "beef" has been something other than beef. It's rather dark and tough."

"Horse meat," Bernadette said, swallowing her disgust.

The look on Erik's face told her that he really hadn't wanted to know, and he glanced longingly inside his stocked pantry. "I fear I will never eat meat again once this ends."

Bernadette turned away, not about to mention the rotting vegetables or moldy bread that they had been reduced to eating. "Did you move that...that thing out that I asked you to?"

"Yes," Erik said shortly, knowing she referred to the coffin. It had been her command that he remove anything pertaining to Christine or his other peculiar ways, as she didn't want Meg seeing it, even if she already had. Gone were the coffin, the references to O.G., and anything else he could find that Bernadette might deem inappropriate.

In defiance though, Erik had left the drawings of _her_, and felt only partially shameful as Bernadette's eyes filled with tears at the sight of them.

"Christine is fine, Bernadette," Erik said, comforting her and somehow managing to keep the pain out of his own voice. "She's probably basking in the sunshine at a lovely Italian villa with that... with her new husband."

"Of course," Bernadette sniffed, staring at a depiction of Christine glancing over her shoulder, as if searching for the artist who'd captured her so well. Her heart ached, and she finally looked away. "Of course she is, I just miss her, is all."

Erik nodded once, then began the task of hiding the evidence of their existence inside the theater.

_# - # - # - # - #_

_I practice every night because I know that Erik would want me to. Frau Merckle walks me home from their little apartment after dinner, then I light a candle in my cramped little room above the shop, and sing, hoping that my own ears will not deceive me into thinking that my voice still retains its strength and clarity. Frau has a friend who owns a piano, and she has said that the lady would be thrilled to teach me to play. It was always a regret of mine that my only talent lay in my voice, but so long as Erik insisted on hiding from me, there was never a way for him to teach me an instrument._

_I've read his journal a hundred times, so much that the pages have become worn, and the binding has loosened. Now I understand the sacrifices he made for me, though from what he has written, it sounded as if he considered teaching me the rarest privilege. I know about his parents now – how they forced him to attend school unmasked – and how the other children laughed at him. They hurt him, throwing rocks and hitting him, pushing him into the water and holding his head beneath the surface, lying and telling him the magic of the gypsies could exorcise the demons from him and cure him. _

_My heart has broken countless times with his words, and I wish with all that is in me for his happiness. I wish I had known this side of my teacher, and not the desperate facade that he presented when he came to me the night after Hannibal. _

_When I first heard Erik's voice, it was a golden dream I did not want to awaken from. I let myself believe his lies, not caring where the source of my comfort came from, just that it was there. _

_He taught me all these years, and I never knew the desperation that he felt in learning something new before he taught it to me. I never questioned why the dialects of operas he taught me in Italian were not as true as the ones Carlotta sang. I always assumed she had gotten it wrong._

_Now I know that Erik was never taught another language himself, at least not formally. Everything that I learned, I learned from him, and everything he learned, he apparently taught himself. _

_Should I feel angry at this deception, that Erik dared teach me things he knew little about? _

_No, I cannot. I am in awe of him now more than ever. My heart swells with emotion as I think of him, eagerly reading some tome on music theory, and painstakingly practicing alone in his dark, cold home. How dedicated he must have been to have developed that rigorous curriculum – and all for me!_

_I shall have to pay careful attention now to my words, and learn the correct way to speak each language I wish to sing in. Frau Merckle is teaching me German, and I am pleased to know that several of her customers are Italian, and even a few English. My Swedish could use a little dusting as well. I will learn these things...I will re-learn these things...and all for him._

_Because he did the same for me. _

_Prague – December, 1870_

Minna Osthiem was the prima donna at the Theater of the Estates opera in Prague, and she put Carlotta Guidicelli to shame. Minna could sing, she could act, she was far more beautiful, but where she truly outshone Carlotta, was her temper! Christine always attended the weekend rehearsals at the opera house, and was mostly ignored by those present, except perhaps the cleaning ladies. There were even times she offered to help, as long as they didn't give her presence away and she could listen to the performers as they went through the different acts.

No woman on earth was like Minna, of that Christine was certain. While Carlotta was content to simply stamp about, complain, pout, manipulate, or whatever it took to get her way, Minna Osthiem was an absolute terror. No one was safe from her once that famous ire rose. Unsuspecting stage hands had props lobbed at them from across the room; members of the orchestra were in danger of having their instruments and clothing damaged if she took it into her head to empty mop water into the pit; even one of the managers sported his share of bruises – of course it was widely known he was her lover – when he also had a wife.

Christine watched, fascinated and appalled at the way a grown woman abused her fellow performers and anyone else who got caught in her cross hairs, and she vowed to never become like that if she ever became a star.

"I will not sing with these lights! They are too hot, and they make me look pale!" the diva screamed one Sunday afternoon. She threw a cape across the stage and it landed on the flame of a gas light, instantly igniting.

While the horrified members of the orchestra scrambled to safety, and the stage hands cut the gas and stomped out the burning garment, Minna clapped her hands and laughed, then announced she was tired of them playing around, that it was time to get back to work.

If Christine could have said anything positive at all, it might have been admiration for the hectic pace that the diva forced everyone else to set. More likely though, Christine would have expressed contempt for the blatant disregard the woman had shown the theater, and for all the damage she'd wrecked on fine instruments without a thought. Christine was astonished that no one said a word to the diva, and rehearsals resumed as normally as possible given the amount of smoke now billowing through the air.

"She's always like that," one of the cleaning girls whispered. "No one will ever put Minna in her place."

Christine turned to face the girl, who she thought was named Sofie. "Someone should," she replied, sitting up in her seat near the back of the theater. "She could have burned the entire place down just then."

The girl smiled, her eyes showing the signs of exhaustion Christine remembered all too well. "That? Oh, that's nothing! She has a reputation for giving concussions, cuts, and any number of psychological problems! Her last four assistants had to be medically treated for some injury or another, and now no one will come near her for the position, no matter how well it pays."

"How well?" Christine asked immediately.

Sofie gave her a patronizing stare. "You do not want to work under Minna. She will tear you apart."

Christine glanced uncertainly at the blond goddess on stage who was pointing a prop sword at a mutinous ballerina. "I want to work in a theater again. How well does it pay?"

Sofie named a sum that was quite a bit more than what Christine made sewing, but Christine was hesitant to approach the managers for a job so soon. And if they hired her, and she could not tolerate Minna's outrageous temper, what then? Frau Merckle would take her back, if there was still a position open, but why risk her new found security? Perhaps she should bide her time, continue watching the performances, and wait for the open auditions for the next production.

Sofie sighed tiredly as she turned back to her duties. "It's going to take half the night to air this theater out and scrub the soot from the stage. I will see you next Sunday, Daina."

"Wait, I'll help you," Christine murmured once she noticed rehearsals were drawing to a close. No one could breathe now with the smoke in the air, let alone sing.

Surely someone should teach that diva a lesson she would never forget. As Christine helped Sofie clean the stage, she couldn't help but wonder how Erik would have handled Minna and her atrocious temper.

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More Erik soon! I've decided to update Fridays and Mondays. Today was a treat... 


	22. The Seige of Paris

My readers must have been busy this weekend...only 4 reviews last chapter...

As promised, there is going to be more Erik in the next few chapters!

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_Paris – February, 1871_

The Prussians had broken through the gates and taken over the starving city. As the citizens of Paris lay dying in the streets from cold, hunger and disease, their enemy held a parade and the leaders made themselves at home in the Palace at Versailles.

By the time Raoul de Chagny made it to his estate under supervision from a Prussian escort, given on behalf of the beleaguered French general, he was too late - too late for the gray stoned mansion that had once been his ancestral home, too late for the beautiful gardens, the expensively stocked pastures, and the elegant rooms, which were now charred from fire and stinking of dead bodies.

The dead bodies of his parents.

Raoul found them together in the wine cellar, clinging to each other in death. They had been murdered – executed - with a shot to the head. He gagged reflexively even as a raging sob tore from his throat, and before he could stop it, he was retching into a corner. The Prussian soldiers, seeing nothing of value – and no threat in the aristocrat – left him alone.

"God, no," he cried, guilt swamping him. "I should have been here. I'm so sorry, so damned sorry..."

He'd left without reconciling, believing when he returned it would be with Christine, and they could at last have it out. His father had been outspokenly angry, his mother coldly furious, and he had returned to Italy far sooner to search for Christine than he had wanted to. And he had found nothing, absolutely nothing until he'd reached Berlin.

Only there had he learned of the girl who had wanted a role in the upcoming opera, the girl who had been laughed out of the theater for her connection to the Paris Opera Ghost.

The trail had ended there, but Mamma Valerius had vowed to keep searching until she found something more, while Raoul had returned to Paris, taking the long way around.

But he had arrived too late, far too late.

"I'm so sorry I failed you. I failed you all," he whispered, before stumbling outside into the snow to open the mausoleum.

_# - # - # - # - # - #_

_Bernadette is hiding something. I have felt this for months now, but am reluctant to add more stress in an already difficult situation. Tempers are flaring short in these close quarters, and no one has been properly fed now in over three weeks. The food is nearly gone, and several days ago Bernadette went up to the surface and returned with the carcass of a "rabbit". _

_I shuddered as I stared at the familiar snout of a feline, and ordered her to have the butcher dock it's tail shorter next time. They sell anything now, and the unquestioning masses will happily pay more for something listed as game meat rather than cat, dog, or rat. _

_I have taken now to catching the blind fish in the lake of the cave. Meg could hardly stomach it the first time, and I confessed to her that I have eaten them in the past._

_"It tastes better with fresh churned butter and lemon," I informed her quietly._

_She stared at me so hopefully that I regretted saying anything, especially as she held her little fish on a spit over the stove and then ate it with apparent distaste. _

_It is better than cat, or anything else that plucks at my conscience as I eat it. Bernadette told me that the starving populace jokes that the stray animals of the city have grown wary and 'know' what the once sane humans are now thinking. Where before a baker might have tossed a piece of old bread to the hounds in the alley – now he traps them and sells them to the butcher. _

_Thousands lie dead in the streets, and even with the cease of gunfire there is still unrest in the city. Prussia has taken over Paris, and the citizens are furious. _

_Worse than the thought of starving for many more months, is the premonition of what is about to occur._

_I fear the madness has just begun._

_# - # - # - # - # - #_

_Paris – March, 1871_

Well before the terms of peace could be formalized into the Treaty of Frankfurt, men were already planning a new revolution. Parisians, proud and defiant, could not stomach the submission to the army which had starved them, neither would they support their own government giving in to such bold demands. The Prussians had marched down the Champs Elysees, demanded acceptance of their Emperor, and ransomed the country for five billion francs. Until it was paid in full, France would submit to partial occupation.

In addition to that, the province of Alsace and part of Lorraine were lost.

The shouts in the streets had grown more frightening, as the citizens turned their hatred of the Prussians into defiance of their own government.

Erik had tightened the security around the opera as much as he could, which was why they were all surprised to hear the bell near the lake tinkle.

"Someone's here!" Bernadette gasped, leaping to her feet. "Erik, does that mean someone is here?"

Erik crossed to the bell and silenced it. "Take Meg and go into the bedroom. Be silent. If you hear any trouble, I want you to leave through the mirror, and do not come back. I will meet you at your home."

"Erik..."

Bernadette clutched his arm suddenly, her eyes widening in panic. "Don't go...please...it could be soldiers."

"Or it could be a rat seeking solace. I'm just going to have a look. You know I won't be seen," he said quietly. He looked at Meg, nodded his head, then set off into the darkness alone.

At first Erik merely stood and listened, waiting to determine which bell might have rung. Hearing it again, a faint sound, he located the correct vibrating string and grasped it, following the wire to the source.

"I told you to stop doing that," a man said, sounding irritated and nervous.

"What is wrong, Monsieur?" came a haughty _female_ reply. "Are you frightened of the dark? This was your idea, after all. We should return to the surface, because this is beyond ridiculous."

"We have to leave the city, Patrice! This war is only going to get bloodier, and I want no part of it. Your family is dead, your house is gone. There is nothing left for us here. At least if I can find the treasure this time, we will have enough money to escape."

"Then stop complaining," came a mocking reply. "And as for leaving Paris, well, I cannot. This is my home."

"I suggest you _both_ leave," Erik whispered in a ghostly voice.

"Francois! Do not play tricks on me!"

"That wasn't me."

Erik paused before moving. Francois? That name - that voice - in sudden remembrance he nearly smacked himself on the forehead. "Francois?" Erik blurted out.

"Dear God, he's still here," came the nervous reply. "Come, Patrice, we need to leave. _Now_!"

"Not so fast, Monsieur," Erik replied, hastily moving down the tunnel. "I want a word with you, nothing more."

He caught sight of their lantern's glow, and pursued them stealthily through the tunnels. The woman suddenly tripped and fell hard upon the tunnel floor, her breath suspended for several moments from the impact. Erik reached her before her companion, and unthinkingly turned her onto her back.

"Are you okay, Mademoiselle?"

Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened for a scream, but she was still winded from the fall. Instead it came out as a wheezing squeak, which seemed to frighten her more. She gasped and tried to draw breath again. Erik clapped his hand over her mouth in irritation.

"Do not scream, Mademoiselle," he ordered quietly.

"Don't hurt her, please."

"Monsieur, if you had not brought her down here, after I specifically told you not to come back, then this would not have happened! I did not cause her to fall, you did!"

"Please," Francois repeated, his tone soft. "We won't tell anyone you are here. Just let us leave."

Erik stared hard at him, wanting nothing more than to send him on his way, but knowing it would not be possible. He had Meg and Bernadette to think of now, and he feared losing them every day. He had worked had to ensure their hiding place would not be discovered, but he had left the Rue Scribe entrance only locked, not sealed. It was only one of two entrances to his home now that led to the streets above. All others led to the sewers, and were well hidden.

"I am sorry, but I'm afraid you will have to come with me now," Erik said, glancing down to the woman who seemed to have regained her senses, and was watching him with wide eyes. "I won't hurt you, Mademoiselle, but your companion's foolishness is what brought you here. Do not blame me."

"You cannot keep us here!" Francois protested.

"Oh, but I can," Erik replied. "Am I correct in assuming you had no money with which to leave Paris, and that you were coming back to finish robbing me?"

Francois glared, while the woman, who was still lying on the floor, tried to remove Erik's hand from her mouth.

"Let us go, Monsieur. We will find a way out of the city without your money."

Erik shook his head, and turned his attention to the woman. "Mademoiselle, are you alright? I am going to release you, but do not scream. These tunnels echo, and I would not wish for my presence to be discovered."

She stared up at him, stiff and unresponsive.

"I take it Francois has not told you about me?" he asked lightly.

She shook her head, and Erik slowly removed his hand from her mouth. He helped her sit up, and was promptly shoved backward onto his behind. Mouth agape, Erik stared at the woman who had pushed him as she stood up and placed her hands on her hips. Briefly Erik wondered if it was a stance all women imitated when their tempers were affixed on a man.

"Insufferable brute," she stated with an indignant huff. She wiped her mouth as if to rid herself the taste of his flesh.

"Yes, well, you will have to come with me, Mademoiselle," Erik repeated, warily getting to his feet. "Both of you."

Francois moved next to the woman, whispering something into her ear, and Erik stared at them both, wondering what he was going to do. It was obvious they had starved just as badly as the rest of the city. Their clothes were tattered, their skin filthy, and exhaustion seemed to creep behind their eyes as they swayed in the tunnel. Even here, three stories below the surface, the smell of death was choking. It lingered in the air, churning the stomach even after weeks of smelling the same thing.

"I have a little food," Erik spoke, trying to convince them to go along easily.

As he had suspected, they both glanced up at him, hungry expressions on their faces. Obviously their hunger was stronger than whatever fear they felt. Without another word, Francois gave the woman a nudge, and Erik guided them back to his home.

Erik allowed the woman to enter first, catching merely a glimpse of Bernadette's bewildered expression before he shut the door, blocking Francois's entrance.

"What are you doing?" Francois cried out. "Patrice!"

"Francois!" she called from within.

Erik grasped the man by the collar and drew him near. "Before I give you sanctuary, we have a little matter to settle, Monsieur Paumard."

Francois swallowed hard, and immediately dug into his pocket. "Are you looking for this?" he asked, giving out a nervous laugh.

It was the only thing that saved Francois. Seeing Christine's ring calmed the rage Erik had kept buried since the moment he'd lost it. Erik released the man and took the ring, closing it so tightly in his palm that it broke the skin. He could not begin to explain the feeling of relief that swamped him.

"Never, never steal from me again. Especially _this_."


	23. Guests of the Phantom

Bernadette stared curiously at the pale, thin strangers who now stood in Erik's parlor. "Friends of yours, Erik?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Guests," he corrected, keeping his tone bland. "Madame Giry, may I present Monsieur Francois Paumard, and...?"

"Patrice Lanier," the woman supplied, her gaze dancing curiously around the room.

"Mademoiselle Lanier," Erik agreed. "Please, Bernadette, show them into the kitchen and give them something to eat."

Bernadette turned without hesitating to find something suitable in their meager supplies. "Erik, you may have to go fishing, and we could use fresh water."

"Of course." He turned to retrieve a net from a closet and glanced at Monsieur Paumard. "You have the option of coming with me or spending time in the mirrored room. I won't have you escaping."

"Erik! I thought you said they were guests!"

"They are," he replied, a dangerous edge to his voice. "Guests who will not be leaving. I cannot have them betraying our location. Where is Meg?"

"She...well..."

_"Bernadette_! I told you, it is too dangerous for her to go to the surface alone anymore! There are Prussian troops everywhere!"

"She needed some air!" Bernadette snapped. "I told her she could go to the entrance for a few moments as long as she was careful."

"Go fetch her, _now_, and I will wait here."

The guests watched in fascination as the masked man and the petite older woman glared at one another, until finally the woman threw her hands up and stormed over to a canvas, which she opened and stepped through.

"Don't go getting ideas. I'm not about to let you walk out of _any_ entrance," Erik said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Francois glanced at him. "No one knows you are here?"

"You are the only man foolish enough to try it more than once."

"Patrice is my fiancée. Her home was destroyed by the Prussians. We have nowhere else to go," Francois said, wiping a hand across his face. "I had hoped to find you gone and at least a little something left, anything..."

Erik noticed they both looked exhausted, and the woman seemed to be swaying where she stood, almost half asleep. He waved them onto a sofa and peered into the two bedrooms then the mirrored room, trying to decide the best place for them to stay.  
Bernadette and Meg had taken Christine's room, and Meg found amusement every day by practicing in front of the mirrors. Erik had removed the iron tree and dismantled the lights, making it seem like a practice room instead of a torture chamber.

In truth, it had tortured no one other than himself.

Deciding they would have to sleep in his room since there was no proper way to heat the chamber, Erik realized he would have to grow accustomed to the sofa. That way he could keep an eye on his guests should they decide to wander around at night. When he returned, he was amused to see Meg standing over the sleeping forms of their guests while Bernadette stoked the fire in the stove.

"Who are they?" Meg whispered.

"This is my intruder from last spring, and his fiancée."

"Fiancée?" Meg pouted slightly. "I don't see a ring on her finger."

Erik's eyes widened. "Meg, I don't think..."

"Oh, you sound like my mother," she grumbled, flinging her hair over her shoulder. "I'm tired of living down here with nothing to do. I haven't had a conversation with a man in weeks! Do you have any idea what girls my age ought to be doing?"

Ignoring her disregard of him as a man, Erik gave her his most probing gaze. "I would imagine being courted by a man, perfumed and dressed in a fine gown, perhaps sneaking kisses behind your mother's back..."

"Exactly!"

Erik closed his eyes, wishing she could have just that. It was what she deserved, after all. It angered him, this senseless war that ended in the defeat of his city, but nothing could be done now. So much blood had been spilled, and he could only be grateful that none of it belonged to the people he cared for most.

"I'm sorry, Meg. If you would like, I can take you up on the roof again, but it must be after dark."

Meg started to cry, frustrated and afraid of what the future held, and angry that the only time she was permitted outside was at night. The walls were closing in on her, and all she could think about was how much she wished things could go back to the way they had been before. Every day she woke, bathed, dressed, and spent the remainder of her time in a zombie like state, never knowing if it was daylight or dark, or if at any moment the soldiers might find them and corner them like animals before slaughtering them in this dark, cold hell.

Meg felt Erik grip her shoulder, the expression on his face hesitant, and her resolve crumpled. Before he could pull away she had flung herself in his arms, sobbing her heart out.

"Jesus, Meg," he whispered, stunned at the force with which she squeezed his ribcage, and even more stunned to find her arms locked around him.

His guests woke then from their brief nap, and gazed dumbly at the beautiful young woman crying in the arms of the nervous looking masked man.

"I w-want to go ho-home," Meg wailed against his chest. "I want to see Ch-Christine."

Feeling rather foolish, and embarrassed, Erik patted her back, humming a soothing melody in her ear. He had no earthly idea what to say to comfort her. Bernadette poked her head out of the kitchen area and covered her mouth, torn between laughter and shock.

"Oh, Meg," she chuckled. "Come in here before you give that poor man a heart attack. I'm sorry Erik, she isn't usually like this."

"Thank God," he muttered, releasing her at once. He felt strange, his feelings exposed before the strangers in his home, when he himself wasn't quite sure what had surged inside him. Protectiveness? Love? Desire?

Not desire, he assured himself hastily. Never that, not with Meg, but he'd felt an uncharacteristic urge to wrap her in his arms and keep her safely within them. Just as he had felt at first for Christine.

Shaking his head, Erik grabbed his fishing net and left the house, forgetting all about keeping his guests confined.

**# - # - # - # - # - #**

"Who is he?" Patrice whispered immediately after he left. "Francois, who was that man...not..."

"I'm afraid so," Francois replied, confused by how their mission had suddenly changed.

He'd been protecting Patrice now since January when the Prussians breached the city, determined to keep her safe even as she was determined to be rid of him. Falling in love with someone like Patrice was dangerous, especially when she had not given any hint she felt the same. Not that he could blame her in these troubled times, but it would be nice to have some indication of her feelings. Patrice's father and brother were both dead now, one from illness and the other from an injury, and they had left the beautiful woman unprotected in a city gone mad from hunger.

Within a month of the Siege, vandals had destroyed her home with fire, and taken everything of value to sell for food. Francois thought regretfully of the ring he'd taken from the Phantom, who was also apparently called Erik. A dozen times he had nearly given it to a baker, or a butcher, needing food more than gold. Instead, Francois was reminded of the look in those golden eyes, of Erik's rage at losing something he had risked his life to retrieve. Somehow Francois had always ended up scavenging for food and finding just enough to survive.

If it had truly come down to survival or sentiment, Francois would have handed the ring over at the promise of food. Now he was glad that such desperation had not come. It was obvious the stories about de Chagny's fiancée had been true. The Opera Ghost had loved her, and if the way he'd pounced on the ring was any indication of his feelings, then he still did.

"Francois, we can get out of here now," Patrice whispered. "No one is watching. The old woman is cooking, and that girl won't notice if we just slip out."

"He said there was food," Francois reminded her. "And you underestimate him. He won't allow us to leave."

Her frustrated cry tugged at his heart, and he pulled her into his arms.

"I don't think we are in danger down here. Look, they have books, a game of chess, even a fire. This is the safest we have been since September, darling-"

"Don't call me that! I am _not_ your darling!" Patrice said vehemently, although she allowed him to hold her. "You delivered us into the arms of a murderer! An extortionist! God knows what he did to that poor girl down here!"

Francois remembered the pain in the man's voice, the way he shielded his face from light, the shadows that haunted his eyes. "He loved her. That's all."

"Love?" Patrice snorted. "He kidnapped her. That is not love!"

"Mademoiselle, Monsieur? Would you care for something to eat?"

They turned to find Madame Giry staring coolly at them both, and at once the aroma of warm bread registered with their senses. Mouths watering, they forgot the host they had just insulted, and stumbled into the small kitchen. It was only a small meal of bread and some sort of stew, simple in it's ingredients, but to them it was heaven. They devoured it, casting aside their manners in favor of satisfying their persistent hunger.

By the time Erik returned, they were sopping the remnants of broth from their bowls with the last crust of molded bread.

"Did you catch anything?" Meg asked, wrinkling her nose as Erik held up his prize of small, flinching fish. "I guess we will be eating more of those, huh?"

"Meg, we are fortunate in what we have had so far," Bernadette reminded her, "do not be ungrateful."

"I'm sorry, Mama."

"We shall have to adjust our sleeping quarters," Erik put in. "I had not thought the matter over, but since you are only engaged, it would not be proper to contain you in the same room."

"We are _not_ engaged," Patrice informed Erik, casting a glare at Francois. "I would not marry this buffoon of a man if he wore a cape of chicken!"

Bernadette and Erik raised their brows, but said nothing. Meg smiled secretly to herself, glad for the news. "Well then, Mademoiselle, you shall have to sleep in Christine's room with Mama and me. Erik will go into the opera and fetch you another mattress, won't you, Erik?"

"If it is agreeable to you all."

"We do not wish to stay here," Patrice announced, getting to her feet. "You cannot keep us here like prisoners."

Erik gave her a considering look. "The rumor is that a revolution will take place. Soon. Do you really want to be up there when that bloodbath starts anew?"

Patrice glared at him, "That is my choice, not yours to make. I will not be confined down here with someone like you! If the soldiers do come, we will be executed merely for associating with a criminal like yourself!"

She turned, intent on walking out the front door, but Francois strode across the room and clamped a hand over her arm. "I'm sorry, darling, but I cannot let you leave. He's right, if we don't have the money to leave the city, this is the safest place for us."

"What are you doing?" Patrice tried to snatch her arm away from him. "Francois! Let me go!"

"I'm sorry," he repeated quietly. "You cannot leave."

Patrice struggled, trying to free herself, but Francois held her tighter, apologizing the entire time. Finally realizing the futility of further resistance, Patrice gave up. Under Bernadette's direction Francois guided her into the feminine bedroom that had apparently belonged to the diva, Christine, and helped Patrice into the bed.

"When she has rested, I will see that Erik heats her some water, and she may bathe. Meg has a dress I am sure will fit her," Bernadette offered.

Francois cast a glance at the young blond, Meg, when she gave a sound of disgruntlement. "I would not want to impose, Madame. I am sure what she is wearing will suffice."

"Meg will be more than happy to share something, won't you Meg?" Bernadette asked pointedly.

"Yes, Mama," Meg replied dutifully.

"I apologize for Mademoiselle Lanier. She is distraught after recently losing her entire family," Francois said in an attempt to smooth over Patrice's display of temper in front of their hosts.

"Think nothing of it, Monsieur," Meg chirped. "I am sure we shall get along just fine."

Bernadette did not miss the side long look her daughter cast at the weary looking gentleman. Nor did Erik, and it surprised him just how much he did not like it.


	24. Simply Erik

I'm updating tonight cause I won't have time in the morning. Hope you all are having a great pre-Christmas season. I haven't even got a tree up yet. :(

* * *

"Don't worry dear, you'll improve," Frau Novotný advised Christine. 

Christine grimaced as she closed the piano lid, "Thank you, Frau, for giving me lessons. I wish there was some way I could pay you for them."

"Nonsense!" the old woman chuckled. "You've been a dear, coming to clean for me on Sundays. It's the least I can do. Why, I haven't been able to reach the top shelf in the pantry in decades! My poor son would do it, but I hate to ask. He's been so busy since he lost his darling wife."

"You've a son?" Christine asked, surprised. She had been coming here for two weeks now, and assumed Frau Novotný had never borne children, much like Frau Merckle. Although now that the older woman mentioned it, there were a number of photographs sitting on the mantle of a striking man standing next to a beautiful young woman in a wedding gown. "What is his name?"

Frau Novotný beamed. "Roman. Just like his father. Ah, he is a handsome devil." She rose quickly and returned with the photograph that Christine had seen. "Isn't he?"

Christine studied the tall, broad shouldered man in the picture. Though it was difficult to tell from the sepia colored image, she thought he might be blond headed with dark colored eyes. A square jaw held a tight smile, and above it was a very defined nose. Roman Novotný was certainly a striking man, and beside him was an equally beautiful woman.

"This is his wife?" Christine asked, reaching out to touch the frame.

The picture was set aside before her fingers could reach it, and the old woman sniffed. "Yes, she was."

"Oh. I'm so sorry." Christine studied Frau Novotný for a moment, wondering what had happened. "Did they have children?"

"Five girls," Frau Novotný said proudly. "All under the age of ten, and all of them angels."

"Five?" Christine murmured to herself. The thought of children had never even entered her mind, but God above, she would never want that many! "They must miss their mother terribly. I lost my father...and my mother..."

"You poor child," Frau Novotný replied softly. "Yes, my granddaughters are all in need of a mother. Roman works long hours at the bank, and he's so stubborn. I worry...," she closed her eyes and pressed the frame to her chest, "I worry about something happening to those girls while he's gone. They need a mother, but Roman is too thick skulled to look for a bride."

Christine murmured a sympathy, remembering that her father had been the same way. His only love, his dearest love, had been her mother. After she died it seemed as if he waited to join her, forgetting the daughter he would eventually leave behind. Looking into the sad eyes of this kind old woman, Christine hoped it was not the case for her son.

"How old are you, Daina?" Frau Novotný asked suddenly.

"I just turned eighteen," Christine replied cautiously. "Why?"

"Oh, no reason. No reason at all."

# - # - # - # - # - # - #

The next lesson turned out to be much more than Frau Novotný teaching her scales. Christine stared down at the keys, her face red from embarrassment because seated directly behind her, Roman Novotný had sunk his too tall frame into a chair.

It became quickly apparent that her piano teacher had a matchmaking scheme in mind, and one look at Roman's unamused expression hinted that he might have figured this out as well.

"Goodness, son, you should have brought the girls," Frau Novotný said, suddenly sounding like a clucking hen. "Daina seemed so interested to meet them."

"I did? Er...of course I did," Christine replied, turning slightly to meet his brooding eyes. "Your mother has described them in - exquisite detail. Your daughters sound very lovely."

"They're monsters," he muttered affectionately. "Screaming, misbehaved monsters."

Despite her nervousness, Christine laughed, knowing exactly how a passel of girls could sound – after all, she had lived exactly that way for most of her life.

"Christine has been taking piano lessons. She's a singer, you know."

"Is she?" Roman asked. "Well that must pay quite well. And you chose my _mother_ to give you piano lessons?"

"Oh, I...," Christine stammered a moment, feeling her face heat at his disbelieving tone. "I actually work for Frau Merckle at the moment. But I intend to sing professionally one day. I've trained for many years."

"Hmm," he replied thoughtfully.

"Sing a little for him, Daina," Frau Novotný invited. She sat down at the piano and began playing a German folk song, which was her favorite type of music to play.

Christine turned away, feeling her cheeks redden further, but she obeyed. She sang the words, proud of the language she had painstakingly learned as it rolled from her tongue, and determined to wipe the condescending look off of Roman Novotný's face.

As she finished the song, she became aware of a large male presence behind her, and she glanced up to find him staring down at her with an inscrutable expression.

"Mother will give me your address. I will pick you up and bring you to your next lesson," Roman stated, then with a little bow, he left.

Christine gaped after him, quite certain she did not appreciate his tone. No matter how handsome he might be, the days of being pushed around by a man were long over.

# - # - # - # - # - #

_"There once was a little, blue boy," the Angel said._

_Christine giggled. "A blue boy? Or a sad one?"_

_"Oh, child. He was the saddest boy you would ever meet," the Angel replied, his voice mesmerizing her through the mirror. "The very saddest. No one loved him, and he was all alone in this world. He was...unfortunately birthed. A demon, some might have called him."_

_Christine's eyes bulged before him, and he regretted his dark words. There was so much he could never tell her, and he had to constantly remind himself that bitterness should never reach her heart. No part of his ugliness could touch her beauty, whether it was flesh, words, or thoughts. _

_"A demon?" she whispered, obviously frightened._

_"Not a real demon," the Angel said hastily. "Just a very sad, very forgotten boy. No one could look at him and think a beautiful thought. He was ugly and hated by everyone."_

_"Angel?"_

_"Yes, Christine?"_

_"Did he have a name?"_

_The Angel's eyes filled with tears, and he pressed his palm flat against the cold mirror. That name was one he had not heard in ages. Not even the woman who rescued him knew it. The Gypsies who had beaten him had given him another. No one knew his name; it was as forgotten as the boy himself, that sad, blue boy._

_"Of course he did, my child. Of course," the Angel replied softly._

_Christine's eyes flickered over the mirror, from top to bottom, as if searching the shadows for the source of pain that came from her Angel's voice. "What was his name?"_

_Before the Angel could answer, Meg Giry skipped through the door, interrupting their lesson. Christine cast a frightened look in the mirror, then turned to her friend. She kept their secret, as always, because she knew the consequences would be terrible if anyone discovered their lessons._

_And the Angel crept back to his darkness in Hell, grateful he had not made the error of revealing that part of himself to her. Christine must never learn the name Erik._

_His heart aching as he poled his way across the lake, the Angel wondered if perhaps there would ever be a woman who would care enough to learn it. _

_"Erik!" Bernadette suddenly called. He turned sharply, about to reprimand her for invading his home, when suddenly the boat pitched to the side, and he found himself falling. "Erik!"_

_He was falling...falling...and instinctively he held his breath, waiting for that icy water to claim him. When he landed, it was not a violent splash that enveloped him, but a jarring thud that made his eyes pop open._

"Erik! For the last time, will you wake up?" Bernadette demanded, standing before him with her hands planted on her hips. "We have guests now, you know. If you're going to sleep in the living areas, then you must rise at a decent hour!"

"Yes, Madame," he mumbled, wondering how exactly he had ended up on the floor. The half memory, half dream was attempting to claw him back into the darkness. Before he could question her, she knelt next to him, surprising him speechless.

"Don't move," Bernadette whispered.

She reached beside him for something, and he suddenly felt the cold air move against his cheek. Erik flung his hand against his face, turning away immediately. "I can do it. Just leave. Just leave," Erik said sharply.

Ignoring him, Bernadette took the mask from the floor and laid it in his other hand. Blocking the view of the curious visitors with her body, Bernadette hoped they would allow him the privacy to cover himself. The forced confinement was bad enough, but if Erik knew the his guests had found him this morning unmasked, then it would not be a pleasant situation for anyone.

She expected him to slip it on without another word, but Erik hesitated. His other hand touched hers softly, and she met his gaze through his fingers. "I was dreaming about her again."

"Christine?" she asked, though it was an unnecessary question.

"I never meant to hurt her. Never," he said, his eyes sliding closed. Erik lay his head back against the chaise, obviously in the midst of yet more inner torment. "Why didn't you stop me? Why? You should have taken her somewhere I would never find her; somewhere safe."

"She was safe with you," Bernadette replied firmly. "No more of this nonsense, Erik. I need you to be strong for Meg right now. Please."

"Of course," he replied faintly. He moved to place his mask on immediately, but she stopped him.

"Erik, if you ever decided..."

"I won't," Erik replied coolly.

"I just wanted you to know that the mask does not make you strong." His surprised eyes met hers, and she covered his right hand with her own. "Strength, so often it comes from within. Please remember that."

Erik nodded once, and she waited until he replaced the mask before she moved. Immediately he noticed Francois and Patrice standing, gawking in the doorway. He rose to his feet quickly, assuring himself that the wig was there, even angrier to discover it was not.

"If you have looked your fill, you can find your breakfast in the kitchen," Bernadette said to them before Erik could say anything at all. "Erik, we are nearly out of firewood, and if you can acquire more candles then we will not have to spend the rest of our days in the dark."

Erik was furious for the intrusion, but merely stared at Bernadette a moment before nodding. Francois and Patrice looked away guiltily, and Erik reached down to snatch the hairpiece from the floor, thankful at least for the darkness. "We must conserve our firewood; they have cut down every tree in Paris. We shall have to use books."

"Shall we start with your Marquis de Sade collection?" Bernadette asked archly.

Erik flushed. "That would be fine. Ah...where...?"

"They are in your room," Francois supplied helpfully. "Interesting reading, Monsieur Phantom."

"His name is Erik Jeunet," Bernadette informed him. She met Erik's eyes, and Erik felt something rare warm his heart. The love she held for him, the pride, for whatever reason, was reflected in her familial gaze. "He is not a Phantom. He is simply...Erik."

_# - # - # - # - # - # - #_

"Erik," Patrice repeated after he had left to find candles. "He is the Opera Ghost, and his name is _Erik_?"

Francois studied his non-fiancée. "Is there something peculiar about his name?"

"No." She shook her head, wrinkling her button nose. "I think _he _is peculiar. Erik seems like such a normal name. Especially for a Frenchman."

"Should they have called him Quasimodo?"

"That isn't nice," Patrice scolded.

"Oh, so now you are in defense of him? What happened to the murdering, kidnapping criminal?"

Patrice's eyes softened as she recalled his wild murmurings as he slept, and his embarrassment upon waking unmasked and without the sleek black hair piece. Francois had told her of meeting the Phantom, of stealing from him, and of the ultimately confusing rescue, which had ended in quite a stir. What made a man, any man, love a woman to the point of madness? Erik, this strange, quiet figure who drew pictures of a girl with delicate beauty and spoke with his emotions so tightly concealed. He was a mystery, even nearly unraveled beneath the opera house.

"I don't know," Patrice admitted. "He seems terribly...sad. What do you think happened to him?"

Francois shrugged.

"The fire was over a year ago now. Do you think he was burned in it?" Patrice asked.

Francois shrugged again. "I don't think so. I would say he has been living down here for a very long time. Years, even. I think it was a choice, made for him, long ago." The depth of despair they both felt there was palpable. The house felt haunted by more than a century of ghosts, instead of just the one man. Francois too thought there was something stranger about the man than just his mask. He was so withdrawn that even the slightest touch from his two female companions seemed to be foreign to him.

"Do you really think we should stay here then?" Patrice asked, trying to be fair to their unknown yet infamous guest. "Are we really safe?"

Francois considered his answer carefully. He loved Patrice as he had never loved another woman, and her safety had been his concern for the last few months. It was exhausting trying to keep her from harm, to keep her fed, to leave her during the day to find arrangements for them to spend the night. Constantly on the move, in fear of being questioned by their own government or that of the Prussians. Without her inheritance, her father's debts would accumulate, and if the the French army caught Francois, he would likely be shot on sight if they remembered him. It was not a chance that Francois was willing to take.

"I truly think we are safer right here than up there. And, Erik was right. There will be a revolution, and it will be bloody. We will be safe here."

"From him?" Patrice couldn't help but question.

Francois nodded. "Yes. We will be safe from him."

He moved to sit beside her and placed his arms around her. For once she did not resist. She settled her face against his side and allowed him to pull her backwards on the sofa. Tilting her head back, he gazed deeply into her eyes and wished that she would at last agree to marry him – the stubborn wench.

As if knowing his thoughts, Patrice's eyes took on a defiant gleam. "Then I suppose I will suffer your company for a few more days."

"Only days?" Francois murmured, and reached up to touch her cheek. "Such a pity."

Content, she nestled into his embrace, her gaze falling on a painting of a beautiful young woman with a red flower in her hair. Briefly she wondered where Christine Daae had gone, and if she ever thought about the man left in darkness with eyes the color of sunlight.

_# - # - # - # - # - # - #_

After a simple dinner of "rabbit" and one of the last cans of pears, Erik retrieved his cloak, intending to search the opera house for candles. There had been soldiers inside earlier to unload ammunition, but now that it was dark then there should be only a guard or two outside. With any luck there would be a forgotten supply of candles somewhere that he could acquire.

Before Erik could leave, Meg sprang from the kitchen, tying on her own cloak.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"With you," she replied calmly. "Where else?"

Erik shook his head. "It's too dangerous, Meg. You must stay with your mother."

Meg ignored him and preceded him out the front door.

"Meg! I said no!"

"And I said I was going," she replied defiantly. "Erik, I am going mad in there. I cannot stand it another moment. Just allow me to go...please. I have to have something to occupy my mind."

"Read a book," he snapped, pushing the door open and gesturing for her to return to the house. "There are still soldiers in the city. Hell, there are soldiers upstairs! You are not coming with me!"

Meg squared her shoulders even as her chin began to wobble. "I want to go with you."

"Meg..."

"Erik, please. We...We're going to die down here. I can feel it. Please take me somewhere that there is light," she begged him. "Just for a few moments. I promise, I won't make a sound."

In the face of such strong feminine pleading, he could no more resist her than he could Christine. Tears were brimming in her eyes, and who could blame her? Year after year he had spent his formative years in this darkness. How could he begrudge this beautiful girl a few moments of light? Erik turned towards the doorway to call for Bernadette, and was surprised to find her already there, arms crossed over her chest and leaning against the frame.

"Do I have your permission to take her with me, Bernadette?"

Bernadette's face softened, and she nodded. "May we all come, Erik? I think I should like a view of the city as well."

Erik hesitated. "If our guests decide to betray us, we will be doomed."

"We won't," Francois said hastily. "We have both decided to stay; at least until we are sure it is safe."

"Very well," Erik replied, and pulled a thin rope from his cloak.

"Erik, no!" Bernadette protested.

"If they are to come, I will have a silencer for all occasions! Mademoiselle Lanier, Francois, do not ever doubt I will use this, especially if it means keeping Meg and Bernadette from harm."

Patrice stared at the rope in Erik's capable hands, now doubting Francois's assurances of their safety. "No Monsieur, I do not doubt you in the least. But that will not be necessary. I give you my word."

Erik held Patrice's eye for several tense seconds before he nodded and hid the lasso once more. He waited until they had all bundled themselves into warmer clothes, then led them slowly out of the basements.

It was nearing ten in the evening, a time in the past which would have guaranteed the opera house to be full of perfumed ladies and well dressed gentleman. The absolute stillness of it now and the deserted feel was one Erik had grown accustomed to, but never this early, and never with a chorus of wide eyed tag-alongs.

Once at the surface though, Erik began to hear gunfire sounding from outside. Deciding to forgo searching for candles, Erik took them straight up to the roof. He smiled wryly as they panted and gasped for air from the multiple flights of stairs. Only Meg was not short of breath as they stepped out in the blustery March wind, high above the city.

"It doesn't stink up here!" Francois exclaimed.

"Keep your voice down, Monsieur," Erik said sternly. "And no, it doesn't."

"What is that?" Bernadette asked, pulling her shawl closer around her.

Erik followed her slim arm as it pointed into the distance, where the site of fire all along the western wall of Montemart stilled his blood. He held his breath and listened intently until he heard it – screams, shouts, laughter - mad laughter. It filled the cold night with a chill deeper than the temperature could provide, carrying with it the saner orders of some Prussian soldier cursing to retreat.

"The revolution," Erik guessed, "has begun."

* * *

Coming up next...someone gets shot! Guess who? 


	25. That Bitter, Hurtful Truth

This is actually two chapters, the first one being very short (less than 2k words). Hope you don't mind! Almost 300 reviews! I'm so happy! Here we find out who gets shot...

* * *

There was nothing left worth saving of his home. Raoul searched every wing of the house, but it had all been destroyed. Paintings of his ancestors were ripped to shreds, his father's mahogany desk was missing, as was the rest of the furniture in the house. They'd used it for kindling – all of it, or destroyed what wouldn't burn. What had meant everything to a man who had lost the ones he loved the most was now only ashes. 

All that was left were memories, and the most recent ones so painful that he turned his mind away from them.

A strange pattern began to emerge as Raoul investigated the servant's quarters. Carrying a pistol that had been hidden in his father's bedchamber, Raoul took stock of the only place on the estate that had not been destroyed.

It seemed to be abandoned now, but all of the rooms of the people his family had employed were untouched.

The furniture was missing here, yes, as was anything of value. But it had not been taken apart with the same violence and rage as the rest of the house. Feeling ill, and sick with understanding, Raoul knew the fate of his parents had begun in secretive whispers amongst the staff. It had occurred everywhere in Paris - the lower classes suspected the rich of hoarding food, of being above the disease and starvation that plagued the rest of the city.

And the hell of it was, whoever had done this would have been right. His father had kept food in the wine cellar, though how long the supply of cured meat hanging there would have lasted, Raoul had no idea. Somehow he knew his parents had been murdered in a most horrifying way, and by those who had shared their home for years.

Hearing footsteps, Raoul pressed himself against the wall inside one of the small bedrooms, trying to still his breath in the frigid air.

# - # - # - # - # - # -#

Something was hurtling through the air below them. Erik could hear the dry, dark whisper of wind, a sound that followed the roar of cannon. The Prussians were either firing in retreat, or the daring French citizens were rushing forth, destroying their own city in determination to rid themselves of the scourge of Paris.

"You need to get back inside," Erik told them briskly. "It isn't safe up here."

"Erik, really! They couldn't fire all the way up here," Meg protested. "We can stay and watch the battle. It would be exciting."

"No, Meg," Bernadette said, tugging her daughter back to the rooftop door.

Erik stayed where he was, listening, watching. They would destroy the opera house and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Well below ground the effects would be minimal, but it was this side of the horizon that called to him. Here was the place he loved and treasured; the beauty of his home was not separated in his mind from the bleakness below.

Seldom had he seen it's facade in daylight, a fact which bothered him now. The bullets and cannons had never seemed more real than this moment, but something drew him closer to the ledge.

On the street below he could barely see the soldiers through the haze of smoke from rifles and the eerie darkness on a moonlit night. Lining the street were horseless carriages, abandoned by the owners. All across Paris the faithful animals who pulled carts and people were dead.

And five stories below the opera house was perhaps the only horse in Paris that remained alive and not in danger of being eaten. Cesar, the poor fellow, had lost significant weight, but was better off than the rest of the animal populous.

"Erik, come away from there!" Bernadette called.

Ignoring her, Erik continued to watch, wondering which side he would have chosen if anyone had bothered to ask. The plight of the people – or faith in his own government?

He could see nothing more than shadows and rifle fire, hear the faint sounds of men dying. It was the last that disturbed him away from his perch on the angel's wings.

"Let us return to home," he said quietly. "It looks as if Paris shall see even more blood in the days to come."

Meg gave a weary groan and followed her mother down the winding staircase. "Erik, isn't there any way out of this damned city?"

"Meg!" Bernadette halted on the stairs to scold her. "Watch your tongue, young lady!"

"But Mama..."

"I will wash your filthy mouth if I hear that word again!" she claimed, and turned away.

"Bernadette, keep your voice down," Erik reminded her softly.

He kept an eye on Patrice Lanier as she followed him down the steps, not trusting her enough to believe she wouldn't shove him if given the chance. Francois was directly in front of him, his head of dark hair shining in the faint light through the circular windows.

"Is there a way out?" Francois asked over his shoulder.

"One or two," Erik admitted. "If someone ever finds their way down into the very pit, well, we won't be trapped. That someone would have to overcome quite a bit, you understand?"

"The water traps," Francois said grimly, remembering the newspaper accounts from members of the mob who had fallen prey to the devices. Only Erik would know if anyone had become a victim of a watery grave beneath the theater. During his first two visits Francois had nearly fallen into three separate traps, saved only by his own slow and methodical way of searching the caverns.

"And other things," Erik agreed, "still, I doubt anyone will get through. Even if they make it to the lake, they would have to raise the portcullis. You are the only other person to have come in the Rue Scribe entrance, and I have now sealed the entrances that lead directly to the streets." Except one or two, Erik thought to himself, but it was best to keep the secrets that remained. "No one seems terribly interested in this old opera house, especially not the cellars."

"Well, someone is going to have to go to the surface soon," Bernadette said, her voice fading as she rounded a corner.

Erik winced as her tone echoed through the hallways, and he brushed past Francois, needing to silence her.

"We are out of meat, and Francois said that the Prussians have allowed supply trains into the city. It would be nice to have fresh vegetables, if there are any."

"No, Madame," Francois murmured apologetically, trailing behind. "There is supposed to be flour and livestock, but no one has mentioned vegetables."

"I would give my life for an apple," Meg moaned. "One measly apple."

"Not chocolate?" Erik couldn't help but ask, though he knew he shouldn't have contributed to the noise.

"Erik!" Meg said, stomping back around the corner to glare at him.

"Be quiet, Meg."

"You promised you wouldn't tell!"

"Now that's not true, I-"

_"Hold it right there, ladies!"_

The half smile slid from his face as he rushed around the corner, lasso in hand. Standing with a rifle trained on Bernadette and Patrice, was a man. He was not a Prussian soldier, nor a French one – but dressed as a citizen. On seeing the masked figure looming behind the women, his gun jerked toward Erik's heart.

"Stop! Stop, or I will shoot you!" the man said, his gun wavering.

Bernadette was closest, and Erik moved his body in front of hers. He could hear her as she gasped with relief and felt his own once he was sure she had slipped back around the corner.

"Do not do anything foolish," Erik warned.

"My God, it's you!" the man cried out. "You're the Opera Ghost!"

"Erik! Erik, come back," Bernadette pleaded. "Erik!"

Patrice Lanier had shrunk, trying to make herself as small of a target as possible. It was not the first time a gun had been trained on her since the beginning of the war, but it was the first time that she had felt this frightened. The man was obviously as startled as they were, and had the advantage of being armed.

"You are presently enjoying the last moments of your life, Monsieur," Erik said softly. "I suggest that if you wish to live to see the end of your revolution, you go back into the streets."

The man laughed madly, fear replaced by the instinct to survive. The war had embittered every man in the city, and people once possessing common sense were no longer the law abiding citizens of the past. The Communards, as they were calling themselves, were going to rise above the death and betrayal that had wrapped it's wicked arms around dark Paris. A new age was beginning, and the tolerances of the old government would not be supported by the socialists.

"I will die, Monsieur Ghost?" the man asked, mocking him. "Ah, no. I think it is you, and your lady friend here, who will die! Is this she? Is that the Daae girl?"

"Patrice!" Francois bellowed from behind them.

The man's eyes widened, realizing too late there were more people in the opera house. His gun swung away from Erik, towards Patrice and the sound of someone charging down the hall.

Erik barely had time to think as the man cocked the hammer on his rifle and took aim.

"No!" he shouted, quickly raising his own weapon.

The lasso sailed around the man's neck, and Erik snatched sharply and to the side, throwing the man off balance before the edge sank into his neck. The sound of choking filled the hall before the man dropped his rifle with a resounding crack and tried to grab onto the rope. Grimly, Erik pulled it one last time.

"Oh my God!" Patrice whispered.

Erik released the device and coiled the lasso back up, and looked at her ashen face. "I am sorry you had to see that, Mademoiselle."

"No...you don't understand..."

Patrice was looking beyond the gruesome body, down the long hall, to where another man stood with a gun. Erik saw the man raise to take aim, and knew he didn't have enough time - the distance too far for the lasso. He launched himself at Patrice a second before he heard the report of the rifle, and felt something slam into his thigh. Grunting loudly, Erik knocked Patrice down, covering her body with his.

"Patrice!" Francois yelled, coming around the corner to the sight of her lying on the floor, a bleeding Erik sprawled on top of her. Rage filled him, and as the man struggled to reload his gun, Francois scooped up the unfired rifle from the feet of the dead man, and shot him squarely in the chest.

# - # - # - # - # - # - #

No light came through the door as it opened, and Raoul lay his head back against the wall for a moment, trying to slow his racing heart. In the navy, he had seen almost no combat despite the training he had endured with his fellow sailors, and now he knew that he never would have been suited to combat. Fear clouded his judgment and anger dulled any compassion he might have had for whoever was coming into the room. If he listened hard enough, Raoul could hear his parents pleading for mercy, hear them begging to be forgiven for their life of privilege.

"Damn, useless lantern," a man muttered beneath his breath, before an object was thrown across the room. "Teach those feminists a thing or two, I will, for using up all the petrol to destroy our city."

Raoul swallowed hard as the man stepped inside the room, for he had recognized the voice of his father's estate manager.

"Don't move Monsieur Ryleind," Raoul said quietly.

"Who's there?"

"Your new employer," Raoul stated.

"Vicomte de Chagny?"

Raoul pointed the gun at the man, or rather, in the direction his voice had come from. "That's right. Tell me what happened here."

"War," Monsieur Ryleind replied flatly.

Raoul reached behind him and pulled a curtain to the side, allowing light to spill through the room. "My parents were not killed as an act of war. They were executed. Perhaps you would like to try again?"

The estate manager's eyes glanced from the silver pistol in Raoul's hand, to the young man himself, obviously weighing his chances. Raoul did not doubt Monsieur Ryleind was taking into consideration that he had known Raoul since he was a young boy, but Raoul doubted there were fond memories going through Monsieur Ryleind's mind at the moment.

"I will shoot you where you stand," Raoul said, his voice displaying the menace that he felt. "Tell me who killed them!"

"You don't understand, Monsieur! We were starving, and they had food! They refused to share with us, and your mother told us to eat the cats! It wasn't right! It wasn't decent!" the estate manager said angrily. "You would have done the same, had you been in our position!"

A curious rage settled around Raoul's heart, and he felt the beating of his heart slow to a dull, yet pounding pace. "Get on your knees," he said hoarsely.

"What? Vicomte, you..."

"On your knees!"

The estate manager complied at once, seeing the pistol gesturing toward the ground. "Please, Vicomte. They were wrong! _They_ were wrong!"

"Who else was involved?" Raoul asked, ignoring him. "Everyone?"

The man nodded once, his eyes trained on the floor. Raoul pressed the barrel of the gun into the back of his head, and thought of how his parents had died, exactly this way. It was pointless to ask if they too had pleaded for their lives. He knew very well that they had, but as he pressed the gun harder against the man's head, it became not a question of revenge now, but survival.

"Has the revolution begun?" Raoul asked calmly.

"Yes," Monsieur Ryleind replied, trembling.

"And will we be expecting company tonight, Monsieur?"

The man nodded his head again.

"They will kill me, just like they did my parents? The Communards..."

"I'm so sorry, Vicomte," the man whispered honestly. "This never should have happened. Not like this."

_Not like this._

Those words haunted Raoul now, bringing him back to sanity. _Not like this._ That was what Christine had screamed at him in the cemetery. Those words had saved him once, and now they saved him again - both times from committing a crime he knew very well he would have regretted. No matter how much he hated Erik or wanted to avenge his parents' deaths, murder was wrong.

"Goodnight, Monsieur Ryleind," Raoul said as he struck the man across the back of his head with the pistol. "And goodbye, until we meet again."

Justice would be served. He would find the people who had murdered his parents, and they would pay for their crimes, but not until he was certain he had them all.

Raoul removed his fine coat and pants, and replaced them with those of the unconscious estate manager, then set off into the cold, dreary night.

Within an hour the giant Opera Populaire loomed before him, and in its cellars, the one person who might possibly be able to tell him if Christine had lived or died.

_# - # - # - # - # - #_

"Oh my God, he's been shot!" Bernadette shrieked.

Erik roared in pain as she used both hands to shove him off of the prostrate woman beneath him. "You could have given me a warning first! Damn you, Bernadette!"

"There's blood all over you! Where were you hit?" she demanded.

"Leg," he groaned, feeling sickness well up inside of him. God, he'd never liked the sight of blood, and his own was the worst. "What about her? Is she okay?"

"_She's_ fine," Patrice replied, rubbing her head where it had struck the floor. "Thank you, Monsieur."

Behind the corner, Erik caught Meg's eyes, and she was shaking violently in fear. Grimacing in pain, he sat up and looked down at his leg where a red stain marked the entry wound in his upper thigh. "We have to get inside the tunnels before we're caught," he said, feeling an impatience with himself for being so unprepared. "Bernadette, go to your daughter."

"But your leg...," she protested, although with her hands waving frantically in the air that way, Erik could not see how she would help his situation.

"I'll live," he said, struggling mightily to keep from screaming as Francois extended a hand to him to help him up. God only knew how he would make it back down to the cellars - and who was going to dig the bullet out of his leg once they made it there. "There is a door right behind you, Meg. A little stone moves just so, and it will open. See it there? Meg! Turn around and open that door!"

Meg began to claw at the wall, running her trembling hands over the surface, but could not find anything. Suddenly her mother pushed her gently to the side, and pressed the wall exactly as Erik had described.

"Francois, Patrice - you will have to help him," Bernadette said, regaining her control, and with it her ability to give orders. "I will support his other shoulder. Meg, shut the door behind us, and follow us slowly. Pay attention that you do not fall into any of his traps."

Slowly Erik counted, down and down and down. There were over five thousand steps to the lake, and he knew every stone, every level by heart. The first, warmth still seeped through from the upper levels. The second bore a mere hint of dampness, the third was where it began to get cold, the fourth was darker than any of the others, and the fifth held the smell of river water.

"You saved her life, Monsieur," Francois said, breathless from supporting most of his weight. "How can I repay you for that?"

When he received no reply, he glanced worriedly at the pale face of his captor. Erik's eyes were closed, and his head was pitched forward.

"He's losing a lot of blood," Patrice whispered, and they had only made it down one flight of stairs.

"Cesar," Erik mumbled. "Get Cesar."

"You have that horse down here?" Bernadette asked sharply. "We have been eating cats and God knows what else, and you have a horse?"

"You're not...eating...my horse...!" Erik got out between the pain, feeling fire shoot up his leg. "I promised him. He's not for dinner. Not for breakfast either!"

"Well I promised him nothing," Bernadette sniffed. "We could live the rest of the year off that animal."

"Keep your fangs out of him!" Erik yelled suddenly. "You are not eating the damned horse!"

"You have a horse down here?" Meg asked from behind them.

Erik stumbled in the tunnel despite having one arm slung around Patrice's neck and the other around Francois's. He felt lightheaded and weak, and for some reason the ground seemed to be rolling beneath him. "No horse," he mumbled. "Lotsa cats. Losha cash."

"He sounds like he's drunk," Bernadette said worriedly.

"He's nearly unconscious," Francois said grimly. He stopped as Bernadette felt Erik's face and then he set him against the wall. "Erik, where is the horse?"

When he received no response, Francois lightly slapped Erik on his left cheek. Erik's head jerked back and slammed into the wall, and his hand shot out and clamped onto the offending arm. "Try that again, Monsieur, and you'll lose it."

"Where is the horse?" Bernadette said impatiently. _"Erik, where is the horse?"_

"I heard you the first time. He's behind the torture chamber." He removed a key from the pocket of his coat and handed it warily to Francois. "The third panel from the entrance, near the floor, there is a place for this."

Francois glanced up at Bernadette, startled. "Torture chamber!"

"The mirrored room," Bernadette whispered, not wanting Meg to know what the room was meant for. "Go get him, Monsieur. Quickly!"

Francois turned immediately and ran down the stairs, praying that he did not fall into a water trap or worse. By the time he made it to the mirrored room and discovered the secret door, he was panting. On opening the little door, he was met with the swish of a jet black tail, and a soft nicker of welcome. A Friesian stood in a wide stall that had straw on the floor with a large pail of water near his head. He was covered in dust and appeared a tad too thin, but otherwise seemed fine.

"Easy boy," Francois cooed when the horse threw his head up, not recognizing his scent. A few whispered words calmed the horse who was apparently used to being kept in such a confined area.

He quickly saddled him, took him through Erik's home, shut the door, then led him back up the long winding tunnels. Erik was awake when Francois returned, with Patrice cautiously examining his leg, but he still appeared sickly. Cesar nickered again at the sight of his master, and stood patiently while Francois hefted Erik over the side of the horse.

"I trust you will...forget this...undignified ride," Erik muttered, leaning against the horse's neck. "I've saved you too many times, you damned horse. I won't let her eat you. I won't let her."

With Francois supporting Erik on one side and a tunnel wall keeping him balanced on the other, they made their way back down the winding ramps to the Phantom's world below.

As they neared the door, Francois frowned. It stood open and light spilled through onto the inky water. Stopping Cesar on the wide ledge near the entrance, Francois walked ahead a few steps, motioning for Bernadette to be silent. He withdrew his pistol and stepped cautiously into the room with it drawn, firing unthinkingly when he saw a man in the doorway, with a pistol pointed right back at him.

"Sonofabitch!" the man cursed, grabbing his arm. "You shot me!"

Francois kept his pistol trained on the unidentified man. "Well, forgive me, but I'm getting rather tired of being shot at myself. Strike first, ask questions later."

"You shot me!" he exclaimed again, drawing his hand away and glaring at the sight of blood.

"Francois, what the hell is going on?" Erik demanded, sliding off of Cesar with a grunt of pain. He staggered, and nearly fell into the lake before he made it to the doorway of his home. The sight of Raoul de Chagny standing in his living area, bleeding on his floor, did not lighten his mood at all. "You," Erik said, his eyes narrowing viciously. "What are you doing here?"

Raoul glanced down at Erik's bleeding leg, then back to his face, sweaty and pale. Bernadette appeared in the doorway behind Erik, and gave Raoul a desperate look. "I'm looking for my fiancée. I wasn't sure that I could believe Bernadette when she said that you had not taken her again."

"What are you talking about?" Erik asked sharply. He glanced at Bernadette, who had covered her mouth with the back of her hand, and looked as if she were about to burst into tears. "Bernadette, what is he talking about?"

"I...I..."

She squeezed her eyes shut tight and shook her head, sending a shiver down Erik's spine. "Where is Christine?"

"I don't know," she whispered, then let out a huge sob of relief at having said it. "I don't know. The Vicomte has searched everywhere, and we cannot find her. My inspector-"

"You hired an inspector?" Erik asked in disbelief, his voice raising with every word. "You mean to say she has been missing since she left Paris, and you are just telling me this now? Christine is missing, Bernadette? _By God, you will answer me!"_

Erik could no longer feel the pain in his leg. It was pain of another sort - pain that clenched his heart and stole his breath, that made his stomach feel as if there were a cannonball in it. Bernadette just stood before him, trembling and looking far more frightened than he had ever seen her in his life, and rage stole what remained of his composure.

Erik turned and hurled himself across the room at the one person alive he wanted to kill. His fist connected with the aristocrat's chin and knocked him backwards, and the second punch, aimed at his nose, successfully broke it. It was probably a good thing that he had forgotten about the lasso, otherwise he would have killed Raoul without a second thought. There was no Christine here to stop him now.

_There was no Christine._

"Erik, stop!" Bernadette cried out. "Please, it isn't his fault. Please stop. It's my fault! _My fault!_" She clutched onto his arm before he could take another swing, and stared up at him, pleading. "It won't help matters if you kill him. And it's my fault that she's gone."

Erik was turned, facing her when Raoul took advantage, and struck him over the head with the pistol. He collapsed at Bernadette's feet, and did not wake again until the next day.


	26. A Life Less Ordinary

Slowly Christine felt as if she were waking from a dream. The events of the last year had begun to fade, and at last the world did not spin her toward mystery and danger. She continued to work at Frau Merckle's shop, but found time as often as possible to listen to the rehearsals at the Theater of the Estates. Nothing lifted her spirit more than music, and nothing was more infuriating than watching Minna continue to wreak havoc on stage props and other workers.

"One day," Sofie vowed after being the victim of a flying shoe, "someone is going to teach that woman a lesson."

"I hope you're right," Christine murmured, watching poor Sofie rub a tender spot on her shoulder.

No one questioned Christine's presence at rehearsals any longer, though a few remained curious as to why a beautiful young girl would spend so much time in their beloved theater when she should have been out doing other things. Roman was becoming rather overbearing, and Christine was unsure of how to tell him that she did not want or need his advice. It would be impolite, especially when he had been so kind to her, and she above all did not want to hurt Frau Novotný's feelings. Christine knew what sort of woman Roman was looking for, and had it been a few months earlier when she had been desperate for food and protection, she might have accepted his offer.

The trouble was, Christine had well learned how to survive, and once succeeding at that, she knew that nothing could stand in the way of her dreams. Christine had no friends other than Sofie, although Sofie had a beau, William, who was principal cellist in the orchestra. Lately Sofie had been asking Christine to accompany them on a picnic, as Sofie's mother would not let her go off with William alone.

Although she questioned Christine's suitability as a chaperon, Sofie's mother had at last agreed. They were set to enjoy a small luncheon near the banks of the river as soon as William finished storing his instrument. Rehearsals had ended early, as they invariably did when Minna was in an irritated mood. Today it had been because one of her admirers had forgotten to send his usual bouquet of flowers, but it was Sofie who had quite literally gotten the boot.

"Are you ladies ready?" William asked, jogging toward them. He touched Sofie's hair reverently. "Did she hurt you, Sofie?"

"No." Sofie gave him a wan smile. "I just wish there was a way to get back at her..."

William cast a malevolent glance across the room where Minna was laughing on the arm of some poor gentleman. "Forget about her. Let's just enjoy our day." He smiled briefly at Christine, who was staring rather wistfully at the sweethearts. "Are you ready, Mademoiselle?"

"Of course I am. It's such a lovely day out."

Christine sat across from them in a carriage, trying not to pay attention to the shy, adoring glances that they shared. It had been the same for her once, with Raoul, and for the first time since Paris she felt honest regret at leaving so quickly. It had been near desperation that had prompted her to leave, and once gone, there had been no going back. Even if she had wanted to, money had been far too scarce in those first few months.

Each day also brought a greater dread - Sofie's brother was a soldier in the army of Austria-Hungary, which had suffered defeat at the hands of the Prussian army in 1866, and he kept his family apprised of the current happenings in Prussia's war with France. So while Sofie was a practical fount of information concerning the happenings in France, the things she uttered about the devastation in Paris were worrisome - words like starvation, disease, death. Putting the gnawing thoughts from her mind as the carriage rolled to a halt, Christine vowed to say a prayer for her family that night, and followed William and Sofie to a spot beneath a shady oak near the swiftly flowing river. 

"Sofie tells me that you have a lovely singing voice yourself," William commented, spreading a blanket on the ground and inviting both ladies to sit. "Is that why you come to the opera house every day? Were you a singer?"

Christine knelt uncomfortably. "I have always been passionate about music. All music."

"I know the feeling." William saw his little Sofie stiffen slightly, and he chuckled. Their only argument was that Sofie did not understand his musical drive, and he hardly made enough money to support a wife. If something did not change, he would be forced to rejoin his father at the butcher's shop. "As long as I can remember I have wanted to create music."

Christine's eyes lit up. "Do you compose?"

"No," William smiled. "I wish that I could, but no. I do not possess that particular talent. Do you?"

"I can't even play an instrument! Although..."

"Daina has been taking piano lessons," Sofie said, giving Christine an apologetic look. "And she _can_ sing. Maybe even better than Minna!"

"Oh, I don't know...," Christine protested, although she was secretly pleased. This was the first compliment she had received, and a far better cry than Carlotta's comment that she sang like a limping sparrow.

"Will you sing something for us?"

"Yes! She will!" Sofie claimed boldly, eager to show William that her friend could do something extraordinary musically, even if she couldn't. "Won't you?"

"Alright," Christine agreed softly, her mind skimming ahead to what she ought to choose. She withheld a mischievous smile, closed her eyes, and sang part of Susanna's aria from _Figaro_:

_And do not come to trouble my delight.  
Oh how the spirit of this place,  
The earth and the sky, seem  
To echo the fire of love! _

William was on his knees with his hands clasped before him in awe, and Sofie was laughing with delight.

"Oh, Daina! This is perfect! You _do_ sing better than she does!" Sofie exclaimed.

"No..."

"You do," William agreed heatedly. "Far better, by a long shot! And you are - forgive me, Sofie - you are more beautiful than she is."

"Now I know you are lying!" Christine said, surprising herself with an indelicate snort. "I am a scarecrow! Look at me, all arms and legs..."

She blushed, realizing it was not polite to draw attention to her figure to a man, especially one currently in love with her only friend. But it was true. Since leaving Paris she had lost a dreadful amount of weight, only now were her cheeks becoming fuller and her appetite returning to normal.

"You have an innocence about you," William murmured.

It was all she could do not to blanch at that, remembering what had happened in Berlin. She refrained from contradicting William's claim, but could not help but wonder what they would say if they knew the truth - that she had tried to sell her body, and that she was a lying thief.

"How would you like to come work in the theater?"

"Oh William!" Sofie threw her arms around his neck and laid a smacking kiss on his grinning cheek. "Could you? She wants it more than anything in the world!"

Wide eyed, Christine nodded without thinking.

"Well, I can't guarantee anything, but Minna does need an assistant," William said carefully.

"A-assistant?" Christine stammered, thinking of that repulsive woman and her explosive temper. "I don't know..."

"Ah, but just think! You have something over her, Mademoiselle. Your voice is superior, as well as your temperament. The managers would be delighted to replace her," he said, winking at Sofie. "And I would be happy knowing my Sofie will not have to dodge more shoes."

"Yes, that's perfect!" Sofie said, nodding eagerly. "You can be the new diva, and Minna will be fired!"

Christine stared at them, realizing that they were both rather naive. Managers, once they found the diva of their choice, did not easily let her go. Minna was sensational, and no matter what tantrums she indulged in, the public loved her. She was even more popular than Carlotta, because in the limelight she pretended to adore her fans. The woman thrived in the center of a crowd, whereas Carlotta had allowed the public to see her but always from a distance.

Minna Ostheim would not easily be replaced. In fact, Christine immediately disregarded William and Sofie's enthusiastic plan of instant fame, but the assistantship did not sound so terrible the more she thought about it. At least she would be back in a theater - that is if no one discovered who she really was.

Christine was growing tired of living alone above the shop. During storms the shutters slammed against the side of the building and the roof leaked. Thunder shook the panes and sometimes she could actually feel the ancient wooden building sway with the wind. The neighboring businesses, seemingly respectable during the daylight hours, turned into a red light district after dark. The people of Prague were shockingly accepting of things that the French were not, and sometimes Christine could look out her window to see women openly engaging men in sex on the darkened street.

There was also the fact that Roman was taking liberties with her time, and seemed to assume she would marry him after only a few impersonal meetings. Despite the fact that she wanted to play piano, Christine knew the lessons would need to soon end. Added to that, the work in the shop was not what she wanted to do, and the theater called to her more with each visit.

"I will apply for the assistant position," Christine said carefully, but held her hand up when Sofie began to clap. "I will _not_ attempt to replace Minna. When they hold open auditions, I will audition for a part."

"But why?" William rather innocently asked. "It is obvious to me that you are more than capable."

Christine gave a sad smile. "I was an understudy once, to a woman with a devil of a temper, though compared to Minna, she was a lamb. Someone was...helping me. They devised a way to get Car...for me to replace the singer. It did not end well for me. I just wish to live in peace. I _do_ want to sing again one day, but I will wait and earn my spot. For now I just want to be near the music."

_# - # - # - # - # - # - #_

The first thing Erik saw when he opened his eyes was a large black nose that breathed softly against his face. He blinked, wondering if he was dreaming, and if not, why Cesar was in his bedroom.

Cesar stomped at some insect bothering him, and the sound of iron shoe on stone echoed loudly in Erik's ears.

"God," he groaned, turning away. His head and leg were throbbing, and slowly the memories came back. "Where is he? I'm going to kill that spoiled rotten bastard..."

"Not I," Raoul de Chagny drawled.

Erik turned his head in the direction of the insolent voice, but could not focus on whomever was sitting in the chair across the room. "Little maggot," Erik said, narrowing his eyes until the multiple Viscount's turned into just one. "You'll pay. Oh, how you'll pay."

"Come over here then," his nemesis invited.

"Bernadette! Bernadette, get in here now!" Erik shouted, his voice going instantly hoarse from the pain.

"She's gone 'fishing' with Meg and that other fellow. Interesting how you have a living, breathing food supply, and yet you refuse to eat it."

Erik turned onto his side to glare at him, then gave a bark of laughter. Raoul de Chagny was tied to the chair, hands and feet bound with ropes. Even his torso was confined, and from what Erik could now see, his arm was still bleeding from where Francois had shot him.

"If only Bernadette would have had the foresight to gag you," Erik said regretfully.

Raoul's gaze slid down to a bundle of cloth on the floor that he had spit out moments earlier, then back to Erik. "You've developed quite a following, Phantom. Three women at your beck and call, a faithful gun – toting friend. From the way my fiancée spoke, you were all alone in this world."

At the mention of Christine, Erik remembered how de Chagny had gotten those bruises on his face.

"Where is she?" Erik asked soberly.

For once the boy had no cutting return. His eyes flickered with doubt, and he lowered his gaze to the floor. "I never found her, just rumors..."

"How is that possible? I sent her with more money than God! She had a companion-"

"Some companion you chose for her!" Raoul shouted. "A woman who robbed her blind and left her stranded in Cologne! Christine was lucky she wasn't murdered as well! She was treated ill because of you! She auditioned for a role in the opera, and they nearly chased her out of the theater because of the scandal here!"

Erik's entire body tensed in preparation of getting off the floor and wrapping his hands around the Vicomte's neck, when pain shot through his leg. Gritting his teeth, he turned his face away to look down at where he had been shot. A section of his pants had been cut away, and a clean white bandage was wrapped around his upper thigh. Biting his lip to stifle the urge to groan, he sat up and began unwrapping his leg.

"Oh, you stop that right now, Monsieur!" Patrice scolded from behind them. "Madame Giry said you two would kill each other, but she said nothing about you doing yourself more harm."

Erik glared at her as she approached and knelt at his side, intent upon rewrapping his wound. "I can do it myself," he said, irritated beyond measure.

"Better than a doctor's sister?" she asked lightly, brushing his hands away. "Relax, Monsieur. While you were unconscious, Francois dug the bullet out, and I cleaned the wound then stitched you up. If you keep it clean and dry, then you should not have an infection."

"No," he whispered, paling at the thought. He had always enjoyed good health, and this misfortune could easily be the end of his days. Without another word he lay back and focused on the pain and not the proximity of a strange woman to his nether regions.

Nothing would matter anyway if Christine was harmed. Anger rose sharply inside, both at himself and at the Vicomte, but more at Bernadette for keeping it from him, when now it was too late to do anything.

"Tell me what happened to her," Erik asked, keeping his tone civil.

As Raoul wearily described his frantic search that covered most of Europe, Erik felt his hope killed, inch by inch. Across Germany and back to Paris, then to Italy and the Czech lands of Austria-Hungary before making the circular trip through Germany to the North Sea then sailing around France to sneak undetected back home, Raoul had searched for Christine, and all he had found were frightening stories of her desperation to find work.

"Mamma Valerius?" Erik asked wearily.

"She is now back in Berlin, in the hopes that Christine does indeed make it to her," Raoul said neutrally.

Erik closed his eyes as Patrice finished tying his bandage off and covered his lower body with a sheet. His attentive nurse and most hated enemy might have been a world away as he pictured Christine, lying on a street in some God forsaken German city, begging for food. Or imprisoned...

"Did you check with the government?" Erik questioned sharply, raising up to look at de Chagny. "The prisons, hospitals? Churches? She spent the night in the Madeline when she ran away from your parents."

Raoul shook his head, and tried to raise his palms helplessly, bound as they were to the chair. "She was in none of the places that I checked. If I'd had more time..."

"More time?" Erik shouted. _"More time?_ You should still be out there searching for her, you spineless bastard! If it weren't for your parents, she would still be here! You should have protected her from them! Damn you, I ought to kill you just for that!"

Erik was halfway across the room before he was aware of the pain in his leg, and of the stately woman standing in front of him with a mutinous expression on her face. Patrice was pushing at his chest, speaking in loud tones that he no longer heard over the fire roaring through his body.

He did, however, manage to catch Raoul's retort. "I was protecting her from you!"

"That does it," Erik cursed viciously. "Untie him. I want him out of my house!"

"You lie down," Patrice instructed firmly. She turned and pointed a finger at Raoul, who had begun to struggle at his bonds. "And you, sit still or I'll have Francois shoot your other arm."

_"Get him out of here!_ You don't tell me what to do in my own house!" Erik thundered at Patrice. "Get rid of him before I-"

"Do not yell at me," Patrice retorted, pushing him backwards.

"Before you what? Murder me?" Raoul shouted back. "Is that what you want? To kill me like you did Buquet? Like my parents? Go ahead then, because without Christine, without my family I have nothing to live for!"

Erik stared at him, stunned. "What are you...? I never touched your parents. I've never even _met_ them."

The Vicomte's jaw clenched and his lips compressed to stifle trembling. He hadn't meant to add the last outburst, and had not even considered Erik responsible for his parents' deaths. "The servants killed them for food," he muttered. "I know who did it." Raoul vowed not to say another word about them to this man.

"You poor man," Patrice said, softening immediately. "I lost my father and brother. We've all lost someone, or something, in this war."

Erik watched as she knelt at the Vicomte's side and tended to his arm, but not untying him as ordered.

Raoul glanced up at him and held his gaze. "There is one more thing you should know. A police officer in Berlin described a girl who had lured a man to his room, attacked him, then stole his money. They think it was Christine."

"No," Erik said, his voice choked. "She would never do that. _Never_...not my Christine."

"It was the name she gave the...gentleman..."

The pain in Erik's body dulled, and he stumbled into the torture chamber and shut the door behind him.

Sounds of rage and shattered glass were what greeted Bernadette as she entered the room. It was no more than she expected as Erik faced the devastating truth of his darling Christine's fate.

# - # - # - # - # - # - #

William spoke to the stage manager the next day, and after a brief interview, he agreed to give Christine a chance to prove herself. Minna, on the other hand, did not even blink when she was presented as her new assistant. The first words out of her mouth had not been ones of welcome.

"Well, are you just going to stand there staring, or are you going to fetch me some water?"

And it began a long day of obeying the whims of a mad diva, though secretly Christine was delighted to be amidst performers, no matter what she had to endure. Twice an object was flung in her direction, and twice she had been missed, though a chorus girl had been clipped by a flying violin bow.

Frau Merckle was disappointed to see that she was leaving, but had known it would come. She offered Christine the seamstress position at any time that she wanted it, as well as the room above the shop, but for Christine, she had once more stepped into the world of opera and never again did she want to return to a "normal" sort of life.


	27. Those Who Struggle May Surprise You

This is two chapters, I combined them as your early Christmas present, even though you were all bad little phans this year! (Erik told me who has been on the naughty list, and I'm inclined to believe him! Don't worry, I'm at the very top!) I'm not sure if I'll update until after the holidays. Everyone is going to be off doing their own things, so Erik may have to wait until everyone comes back. I'll keep him occupied though... :)

* * *

April, 1871

The days stretched endlessly before them, and in the darkness, one single day could feel like an eternity. But by the week's end, Francois had gone above ground and returned with interesting news - business had returned to Paris. The Prussians had been pushed out of the city entirely. The French army was now stationed in Versailles, and the citizens of Paris could not have been happier unless it started to rain cows.

On hearing that the Comique had re-opened it's doors, Meg was ecstatic. Feeling the sting of Erik's silence all too clearly, Bernadette relented and allowed her to return to the opera house. While Patrice tended to Erik's leg and Raoul's arm, Francois escorted Bernadette's young daughter to work each morning and returned with her in the evenings, though she had warned Meg repeatedly not to listen to the ravings of the suffragette's. This new government called the Commune seemed the perfect thing, but Bernadette was hesitant to believe that the overthrown government would allow Paris to have it's peace.

Nothing had been said about Raoul's continued presence in the theater. Erik had reclaimed his room, leaving Francois and the Vicomte to share the furniture in the living area. Erik had spoken only once to Bernadette, and that had been to inform her that they had nothing left to say to each other. When Raoul had told her what happened to Christine in Berlin, Bernadette had stopped trying to reach Erik. It was what she deserved after misjudging everything so horribly.

Bernadette had never been so unsure of how to approach him, and feared to ask his forgiveness, knowing the answer. He was furious that she had not told him of Christine's disappearance immediately, and Bernadette wondered if he thought she had considered a fate unknown better than bringing Christine back to Paris. Their food supply had been restocked, though nothing could be remotely considered traditional cuisine, but Erik now refused to eat despite Patrice's attempts to feed him.

Bernadette glanced up as Madame Lanier left Erik's room, hearing him shouting from within and her muttering curses beneath her breath as she slammed the door on him.

"How is he?" Bernadette asked worriedly. "Is his leg any better?"

"Better than his temper!" Patrice retorted. "I swear, men are the most pigheaded, foul mouthed, ungracious creatures God ever designed."

"Foul mouthed?" Erik shouted from within. "_You_ are calling me foul mouthed?"

Patrice pressed her hands over her eyes, unsure if she could go back and finish changing his bandage. "Madame Giry, that man has no manners! He is a complete savage!"

Bernadette gave her a sympathetic smile. "I assure you, he can be a perfect gentleman," she replied. "He is letting anger rule him."

"Well I won't tolerate his rudeness!" Patrice exclaimed loud enough for Erik to hear, then crossed the room to retrieve a bottle of laudanum from the small curio cabinet where she had placed it for safe keeping. When she entered Erik's room again, he was glaring at her with his arms folded across his chest, a mutinous set to his chin.

"Did you ask Francois for the crutches?" he snapped immediately.

"Francois is not here," Patrice returned sharply. "And I will not have you tearing your stitches again, so I will not be asking him."

His eyes narrowed further, but she ignored him. So far he had been all bluster and no blow, a vast difference from some of the patients she had helped her brother treat at the beginning of the war. Behind the anger Patrice could see the immense pain, the worry that haunted him, but any attempt to reason with this man had proved futile. He had regressed fully to such a state of darkness that she could only pray for him, though it was difficult to hold her tongue when he was so cruel.

She rolled the blanket away from his leg and untied the bandages. The flesh had swollen and become infected. A week ago, Francois and a grim faced Raoul had held Erik's shoulders down as Patrice lanced the wound, leaving Raoul once again with a broken nose. Oddly he was the only person injured, though privately Patrice thought Erik had done it on purpose. Raoul had insisted on his own wound being lanced after that, mostly because Erik had called him some rather unflattering, unmasculine things.

"It looks better today," she said, her tone softening when she saw him wince. "Please give it another week or two of rest before you move, Monsieur."

"I think you have had enough say in my recovery, _Mademoiselle_," Erik returned coolly. "Had I known the trouble you would cause me, I might have reconsidered throwing myself in the path of that bullet."

Patrice rolled her eyes and poured antiseptic over the wound. "You'll have to dig deeper than that to hurt my feelings. I'm not too certain the man was aiming for me in the first place."

Erik gritted his teeth, but didn't respond, watching as she cleaned the wound. Willing himself to gain strength, to heal faster, Erik closed his eyes and wondered where Christine might be. The news of her being taunted and ridiculed for her association with him was the most disturbing of all. He could only imagine what a young French speaking girl might be subjected to in a country at war with that nation. He refused to believe that Christine had taken a man to a hotel room and stolen his money. His mind would not even consider that possibility. Stricken with grief, he completely denied Raoul's story about that event.

His Christine would never do that. She would never survive something so degrading, never think of committing such a desperate act. He ignored every voice of reason in his mind which screamed that a person would do whatever they had to to survive. This lie could not be. As soon as he was healed he would find her. Nothing would stop him, and nothing would ever make him quit searching until she was in his arms again, when he could hold her and never let her go.

"Is there anything else I can get for you?" Patrice asked him.

He frowned and glanced over at a picture of Christine that was on his dresser. "Bring me that."

"Please?" she prompted, but without waiting for a response, obeyed. Instead of handing it to him though, she stared down at the photograph of the lovely girl standing next to Madame Giry and Meg. "This is Mademoiselle Daae?"

"Who else?" Erik muttered, staring down at his hands.

"She is very beautiful. How old was she here?"

Erik fidgeted, wishing suddenly that he had retrieved the picture himself. "I'm not certain," he lied.

"She looks about sixteen here," Patrice mused, then handed him the frame. It was immediately set to the opposite side of his leg, face down. "I'm sure she is fine, Monsieur Jeunet. She looks like a smart girl."

"Do you mind?"

Ignoring his glare, Patrice smiled and shifted on the bed. "Not at all. I'm a very good listener, Monsieur. Madame Giry is very distraught right now. Perhaps you have something you would like me to tell her?"

"No," he mumbled, feeling a sting of guilt. He did not exactly blame Bernadette, but he was still angry that she had not told him of Christine's dilemma.

Patrice reached for the bottle of laudanum, but Erik clapped his hand over it.

"I don't need any more of this. We should save it, just in case someone else needs it."

"Alright," she agreed.

"May I ask you something, Madame Lanier?" he asked suddenly as she moved to rise. "If Francois had not been there to protect you during the war, to provide food, shelter, what would you have done?"

"I suppose I would have learned to do those things for myself," Patrice answered carefully.

"And if you couldn't? If you didn't know how? Would you have...done anything?"

Her irritation with him vanished, and she noticed he suddenly had a plain gold ring in his hands, the same one Francois had stolen from him. Taking it from him gently, she held it to the light, and read the words inscribed: _A jamais mon ange._

Patrice could see the pain etched on his face as she handed the ring back to him, but he did not weep.

"Would you love her less for it, even if she had?"

Slowly he shook his head, drawing in a huge, ragged breath. "Nothing could make me love her less. Nothing," he whispered.

"Then tell her that the next time you see her, and stop blaming yourself for this. Stop blaming Madame Giry. Neither of you could have foreseen the events of last year, and I know she did not tell you about Christine for your own protection."

"I wasn't the one needing protection! You don't understand how delicate Christine is. She will never survive on her own; never forgive herself if she sells herself that way."

"Never forgive you, don't you mean?" Erik glared at her, but Patrice simply pursed her lips. "You never considered that she might adapt? That she could possibly manage to live life without you hovering over her? Perhaps she decided she doesn't_ want_ to be found. Did you ever think of that?"

"You don't know her. You know nothing about Christine."

"I know if I had been offered the choice between a spoiled, moody aristocrat and a cranky, ill tempered composer, I would have done the same thing she did!" Patrice retorted. "I would have told both of you to leave me alone!"

Erik's mouth fell open in outrage as Patrice stalked to the door and slammed out of it once more.

# - # - # - # - # - # - #

"This is Marie, Mika, Mora, Minta, and the littlest is Margret," Roman named his daughters off in order of age in rapid succession.

"All M's," Christine said weakly, giving a strained laugh. "So _many_...lovely girls."

Five blond headed dark eyed young females beamed at her, and Christine glanced around, wondering if she could locate an exit and disappear quickly.

"Hello Mademoiselle Christensen," they chorused in a sing-song voice, all wearing frocks of a similar color and style.

"Hello," she returned nervously, glancing at Roman. Why had she agreed to meet them? Why hadn't she simply said no, that she could not make their acquaintance and give them hope that she would be their mother, because she did not intend to marry Roman Novotný!

"Daughters, take Mademoiselle Christensen to your rooms and show her your dollies," Roman instructed in a tone that offered no compromise.

Christine was tugged upstairs through Roman's lovely, elegantly furnished home, and beseeched into five separate bedrooms to dutifully inspect five separate dollies and innumerable other toys. Quite shocked she was, when his eldest daughter thrust a lovely length of satin ribbon into her hands, and ordered that she keep it.

"To put in your beautiful hair," Daughter Number One (as Christine thought of her) said. "Besides, I have several others."

"Erm, thank you," Christine replied graciously, staring at the ribbon in her hand as if it were a snake.

Daughter Number Three frowned, and Christine could see the girl seriously debating relinquishing her ribbons as well. Suddenly she was stricken with the image of leaving Roman's house trailing a rainbow of satin ribbons while five heartbroken girls waved farewell. "Is that your father calling?" she asked quickly, pretending to listen.

Like cats called to dinner, they ran out of the room screaming for him, leaving Christine in a very feminine bedroom with a doll that resembled something possessed staring down at her from high on a shelf. Shuddering, Christine quickly left the room to get out from under the scrutiny of those eerie, almost human eyes.

"Daina?"

She hurried down the hallway to the sound of Roman's voice, relieved when she saw the children's nanny drawing them outside. There was something quite terrifying about that many children, but even more threatening was the very male figure that had sired them. Roman was standing at the base of the stairs, a smug expression on his face as if he had not a care in the world. Worse than that was the way his eyes lingered on her hips, as if envisioning another brood of children hanging around them.

"This has been a lovely visit, but I'm afraid I'll miss dress rehearsal if I don't leave," Christine said before he could speak.

Irritation flashed in his eyes. "Why did you accept that position anyway? I told you that all would be provided for you."

"Herr Novotný-"

"Roman," he corrected, extending one hand and offering a charming smile.

Oh how easy it would be to fall under that spell of his. He was handsome and wealthy, gruff but kind, and he had decided that she would be the new mother to his children.

And yet, Christine knew she would not be the _perfect _mother, and what was more, she did not _want_ to _be_ a mother. Not now. Not yet.

Not with Roman Novotný.

"I must go," she said, quietly but firmly. "It has been wonderful to meet your family, but I am afraid that I won't be coming here again."

Clearly affronted, Roman gave her a cool, assessing look. "May I ask why?"

Christine closed her eyes and gave a slight shake of her head. "You don't know a thing about me. Not a thing! And if you did, you would not be offering me a place in your daughters' lives."

"Are you a criminal?" He asked incredulously.

"Undoubtedly, there is someone out there asking questions about me," she hedged. "Whatever I have done, it was so that I could eat. Survive. Escape. Does it matter?"

"Daina-"

"That is not my real name," she blurted out.

His eyes bulged slightly. "It isn't?"

Christine raked a hand through her hair and gave a nervous laugh. After working so hard to ensure that no one knew who she really was, it frightened her to think of revealing everything. Roman had been more than kind to her, if he was a little overbearing, but she feared that if he continued to pressure her the _old _Christine would resurface, that little girl who had no voice, who could not stand alone.

Well things had changed. Raoul was not here to protect her, and neither was Erik. For a year now she had fended for herself, and in the face of adversity, she had triumphed.

Oh she might be a little tarnished now, and would always regret the vicious attack on that man in Berlin. She would never look at water in the same light, and could hardly stand to have it more than hip height while she bathed, but she was still alive, and she was closer now to singing than she ever had been.

"My real name doesn't matter," Christine said softly. "Would you please accept that I cannot be part of your family? I know this will disappoint your mother, and now your daughters."

"And me," Roman admitted, glancing away.

Flattered, her breath caught, but she found herself smiling as he returned a vulnerable gaze. "I cannot feel sorry for you, Roman. You have a beautiful house, lovely daughters, and you cut a dashing figure yourself. The right woman will come along. Just wait and see."

Roman tilted his head slightly, as if so intrigued by her rebuff that he could not resist one final chase.

"I've found her," he said, staring deeply into her eyes. "I won't give up so easily, Daina. One way or another, I will marry you away from the stage."

His confidence faltered but a moment as she lifted her chin, and he could see a dozen defenses building behind her glittering eyes. She truly looked as if she were preparing for battle.

--

_A jamais mon ange._ (forever my angel)

# - # - # - # - # - #

Meg returned each day from the Comique telling Erik stories with such enthusiasm and speed that he had a difficult time keeping up. First, there was the remarkable return of Carlotta, since no other diva was available, and the daily rants outside the theater by that nuisance of a woman, Louise Michel. New laws were being formed, religious leaders being executed, and there was general mayhem everywhere. The only thing the fools of the Commune did not seem to realize was that General Thiers was not going to allow a group of citizens to reign over the capital of France.

"Meg, you need to be careful," Erik told her after she exclaimed the brilliance of the new government's scheme. He looked around at his other guests, glared at the Vicomte, then looked back at Meg. "I don't think it's a great idea to continue going up to the street. If they see one of you leaving the theater on a regular basis, they will find a way to flush us out."

"Oh, Erik," Meg complained. "It's perfectly safe for me, and Mama, even you! Why, the only one who should be concerned is him," she added, pointing at Raoul. "He's an aristocrat. They hate those."

"Meg, don't be rude," Bernadette scolded gently.

Bernadette placed her hands on the back of her daughter's chair, and looked around the table at their little assembly of survivors. Since Erik had begun coming out of his room, tension had remained thick between him and Raoul, but they were at least civil. Christine was mentioned no more, but her presence haunted each man in this home, which now seemed much smaller with both of them in it.

"And I do agree with Erik, Meg. It's gotten too dangerous for you up there."

Instantly her daughter turned to give her a pleading look, but Bernadette shook her head firmly.

"No, Meg. The war between our government and the Communards is increasing. The Communards are outnumbered, outsourced, and if Prussia really wanted to re-enter this fight, we would all be crushed."

Meg pushed out of her chair and ran to the room she shared with Patrice and her mother, moved beyond anger to a sense of despair. Going to the Comique the last three weeks was all that kept her sane, and now it was being taken away. She kicked the dresser, swiped her hand across the bed and threw the pillows onto the floor, then let out a small, muffled scream of frustration.

"I hate it! I hate it hate it hate it!"

"I'm sorry, Meg."

She looked up to see Erik balancing carefully on a black cane with a silver skull on the knob. "I can't stay down here anymore," she said desperately. "Please Erik. Please talk to Mama. Please..."

"It isn't safe," he reiterated, leaning against the door to keep the weight off his injured leg. "No matter how exciting it may seem with this new government, with all these changes, it's all for nothing. It won't last."

"I don't care about the government! I just want to dance," Meg cried. "I just want to leave this place!"

Erik closed his eyes, wishing he did not feel so useless where Meg was concerned. He wanted nothing more than to heal enough so that he could escape the city, and once gone, to find Christine. But he could not leave Bernadette and Meg behind, and even if they escaped the city walls, how would they all travel? There were likely no trains running conveniently down the tracks, nor carriages since there were no horses to pull them, which meant they would all have to walk.

How long? How far? The questions seemed as indefinite as the answers were elusive. Making it on his own would be difficult enough, but two women lagging behind was impossible to imagine. Of course, with his leg, it could well be Bernadette and Meg who were forced to wait.

"Meg, I promise that once this is over, I will repair your mother's house, and you can dance until your feet fall off. But it's not safe right now. Not only for you, but for your mother."

Meg's lower lip trembled slightly, and she glared down at the pillows strewn on the floor. "I wish I had gone with Christine. She's probably singing on a stage somewhere, instead of down here in this miserable cold."

Erik swallowed hard at the thought of Christine, and nodded. "I do too," he whispered, wishing he could be as naïve as Meg and pretend that Christine was perfectly safe.

Meg did not know of the events in Berlin, nor that Christine's companion had stolen her money. All Meg knew was that Christine had never made it to Mamma Valerius, and that Raoul had been unable to find her. Erik wished that he could forget. Every time he thought of Christine, hungry and unprotected, the urge to find her was so great that the only thing stopping him was the ripping pain in his leg and one hundred thousand soldiers between them.

Meg buried her faced in her hands and sank down on the bed. "I just want everything to go back to the way it was. I want to go home."

Impulsively Erik sat next to her on the bed, grunting with pain as his leg stretched. Meg lay her head against his shoulder, and with tender affection, he put his arm around her. They sat for several moments, drawing comfort yet maintaining a peaceful demeanor. It was perhaps the most normal moment of Erik's existence, one that was surprisingly free of his usual prejudices or shaking fears at being touched. He had known Meg for ages, even if she had not truly known him, and it was startling to realize there was a bond between them, much as there was with Bernadette. This was different, calmer yet tenuous, but just as strong.

"You won't let anything happen to me and Mama, will you?" she asked softly.

He tightened his arm around her, "No," he vowed. "I will keep you safe, Meg. But here is safe. This is the_ only_ place that is safe."

"I hate it here," Meg replied tearfully.

"Sometimes I did too," Erik whispered. "Sometimes I still do. But we are all feeling the effects of this isolation, not just you. Remember that, Meg."

"I'm sorry. I..."

"It's alright. I know you're frightened," he said quietly. "I promise, if you will trust me, I will keep you safe." She leaned back to look at him, huge brown eyes filled with such a strange emotion that Erik felt choked.

"I trust you, Erik. I...I know why Mama protected you all those years ago. She loves you very much."

Erik looked away, still feeling a pulse of anger at the deception he had been dealt by the one person he had always trusted and confided in.

"She's really sorry about Christine," Meg whispered softly. "Promise me that you'll talk to her."

"Meg-"

"Please?"

Erik nodded once, but knew that it was still too soon for him to speak to Bernadette without anger influencing his words.

He was shocked when Meg leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek, then turned bright red from embarrassment.

"Promise?" she insisted.

"Alright," he agreed, dumbfounded.

Meg giggled mischievously, laid another smacking kiss on his cheek, then flitted from the room, sending out peals of laughter.

Erik remained where he was, touching his cheek, until the door closed and someone cleared their throat.

He looked up to see Raoul de Chagny staring at him with his arms crossed over his chest, and a smug smile on his face.

"What do _you_ want?" Erik asked, barely refraining from snarling.

"When are you going to find Christine?"

"I'm not aware of any impending plans," Erik replied coldly, struggling to his feet. "As if I would share them with you. Excuse me."

"No."

Erik met his gaze directly, wondering if the boy had a sudden death wish. "Oh, I think you will, _Vicomte_."

"That would be Comte now," Raoul reminded him with an arrogant smirk. "_Comte_ Raoul de Chagny."

"I have another title for you," Erik shot back. "Effete snob comes to mind."

Raoul ignored him. "You know, since I've been down here, I've noticed how close you are with Meg."

Erik's fist tightened over the cane as he considered removing the hidden sword and running it through Raoul's gut, or simply whacking him on the head with the heavy skull end. By the look in Raoul's eyes, the implication was clear.

"Meg is Bernadette's daughter, and don't you dare say a word to me concerning that girl. I have never looked at Meg-"

"Like you did Christine?" Raoul taunted. "You never took advantage of her innocence? Of her trusting, naïve mind?"

"I never touched Christine, and damn you for thinking otherwise! It's more than I can say for you, taking a young girl, unchaperoned to the rooftop of this opera house! Confining her in your parent's house and cutting off all the connections to those she loved!"

"To escape from you!"

"I saw you with your mouth all over her, so don't bother-"

"Spying were you? How did it feel, watching as I claimed those sweet lips for my own?" Raoul demanded. "It couldn't have hurt half as much as watching her on the stage with you, under your sickening spell, watching your hands on her, seeing how she crumbled under your anger. That kiss, the only one she gave you, was nothing! It meant nothing to her!"

"You think I don't know that?" Erik roared. "Why the hell do you think you both walked out of here?"

Raoul stepped out of his path this time as Erik moved toward the door, but not quickly enough. Erik grabbed him by the throat, and with surprising speed, pinned him to the wall.

"You think you're better than me because of your title? Because your father paid someone to teach you manners?" He smiled bitterly and tightened his hold over the younger man's neck. "Mine taught me that I could hold my breath for over four minutes underwater before I passed out. He taught me how to keep silent, how to steal, and how to fight. So unless you want to finally end our...disagreement, _Comte_, then I suggest you stay out of my way. Your life means nothing to me, and for all I care, you can return to your precious estate and risk what's left of your future to defend it."

Releasing Raoul with just as much violence as he had gripped him, Erik slammed out of the door as quickly as he could on his now throbbing leg.

#-#-#

"You useless, stupid girl!" Minna screeched. "I told you this costume had to be taken out before the performance! Do you know what wearing such a tight corset has done to my voice? Did you hear how off my pitch was?"

"I let the costume out," Christine replied tightly. "Twice." She barely refrained from adding that if those extra _kolaches_ had not been consumed, the costume would have fit perfectly.

"You lie!"

The diva stomped to within an inch of Christine's face and glared down at her. Christine, now used to Minna's frequent attempts at intimidation, stared back coolly. Indignant at being called a liar, she longed to lower herself to Minna's level for a moment and indulge in a violent outburst – preferably ending with Minna's nose bloody and her own hand stinging.

"I let the costume out," Christine said between clenched teeth. "Perhaps you should begin fasting a week before your next performance, and maybe it will fit!"

Minna's gasp of outrage was so powerful that Christine felt the breath hit her face a half second before a well manicured hand delivered a violent slap. Before she could respond in kind, the diva rushed off the stage, screaming for the managers.

Christine was sure that it most certainly wouldn't help the future of her employment when the entire cast broke out into thunderous applause.

Blushing furiously, she ducked off the other side of the stage and ran straight into Roman, who was barely holding in laughter.

"At the rate you're going, I won't have to persuade you to marry me," he chuckled. "You'll be _begging_ for my hand!"

"Don't hold your breath!" Christine retorted, brushing past him.

"Aw, come on, Daina, I was kidding," Roman said, grabbing her arm. "I'm glad to see that you're no one's punching bag. I've seen too many girls squalling because they can't stand up to that ill tempered witch."

"Well a lot of good it's going to do me with no job!"

He had the gall to laugh at her again, and she glared even harder. Really, working for the opera house was wonderful, but working for Minna in particular was doing nothing for her disposition. In the past month the two women had nearly come to blows more than once, and Minna had eventually learned not to throw things at Christine in particular unless she wanted objects lobbed back at her with equal force.

"I am not marrying you," Christine said for the hundredth time. "Not now, not in a year, not in ten years!"

"What if I ask really nicely?" Roman murmured, putting his hands on her arms. "What if I said pretty please?"

"Not even then! I'm serious, Roman. I'm perfectly serious, and right now I'm very angry," she said, shrugging free of his embrace. "I have no wish to be a wife. Not yours, and not anyone else's."

He winced slightly, but was determined not to give up. Daina intrigued him, she fired his blood with her innocent beauty, with the determination of a soldier and the heart of a lion. "I would make you the happiest woman alive," Roman said quietly, "and you would make me the happiest man, if you would but agree to be my wife."

Recognizing a vulnerability in his gaze, one that appeared often but was hidden quickly, Christine forced her anger away. Roman was more than kind to her, and the hours spent with him away from the opera house were a pleasure. He reminded her a little of Erik at times, always thinking that he knew what was best for everyone, and doing his best to ensure that his meticulous orders were carried out.

But he was not Erik. And he was not Raoul. And her heart still belonged to both of them.

"I don't love you, Roman. You don't love me," she said bluntly.

"Love?" Roman frowned. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Christine had already known what Roman would think of her foolish notion, but was disappointed that he would think her so ready to consent to a marriage without that solvent part of the equation. Marriage without love? Without trust? Looking back on the two men who had tried so hard to win her hand, she realized that each of them had lacked something essential to winning her heart.

Oh, yes, she loved Erik, and she loved Raoul, each in a different way. But now it was clear that neither of them had put her above their own selfish needs, and until now she had not known that only she could have stopped the madness that had caused them all such grief. Had she been stronger and wiser, none of it would have happened.

"Love may not be the most important thing, Roman," Christine finally said, resolved to turning him down yet again. "But when I marry, if I marry, I will love that man. And he will love me."

"I don't understand."

"I'm sorry, Roman. I can't marry you."

"Daina-"

She gave a slight shake of her head in apology and swept past him, feeling a little resentful that he continued to put her in the position of hurting him.

Sofie was waiting for her in the room they shared, and she let out a triumphant squeal as Christine closed the door.

"You showed her! Oh, she is fighting mad!"

Christine gave a wan smile. "Yes, and I'll probably be looking for a new job tomorrow morning."

"I don't think so. The managers were laughing when you said that about the costume. Everyone can see who the real lady is."

"Yes, well, this lady is about one temper tantrum away from scratching Minna's eyes out," Christine muttered.

"Well, things are going to get even more explosive now that Juliette is returning."

"Juliette?"

"The diva who used to reign here. Juliette Dvorak."

Christine's mouth fell open. "_The_ Juliette Dvorak?"

Sofie grinned. "I heard the managers talking earlier today. They said she is just coming back for the twentieth anniversary of her retirement to be honored with an award. Minna hates her."

Juliette Dvorak! Oh, Christine hoped that she would sing for them. Of course, if she were retired then it was possible that would never happen, but just the chance to meet her would be a privilege. When she had first come to Prague and visited the opera house, she had noticed the numerous paintings of a robust, very flamboyantly dressed woman that decorated the halls of the opera house. Beneath one of the paintings was a dedication to Juliette, the diva whose spirit would always fill the theater with laughter, love, and music. When looking up into her eyes, Christine had felt that spirit embracing her, encouraging her, welcoming her.

Juliette Dvorak was a legend in Prague, and Minna hated her because even with the success that she had found, patrons still held their beloved Juliette above any soprano who had taken the stage since.

"Have you ever met her?"

Sofie shook her head. "Mama would have a fit if I had. Juliette has legions of lovers. At least Minna is exclusive only to the manager. Juliette was a very...popular...diva. For many reasons. She is even married to the man she partnered with most frequently, and still has gentlemen calling."

Christine brushed away a niggle of prejudice. She did not care if Juliette had men standing in line outside her dressing room in turns. Her personal reputation was nothing when compared to that of her professional one. More than anything Christine wanted to find out if she was still capable of bringing the audience to their feet, demanding more, if she could still shatter crystal with her voice, and was still in possession of those dynamic three registers which reached inside a person and plucked at their heart.

Of course, that was only what Christine had heard, but it was enough to bring a smile of excitement to her face despite the brutal encounter with Minna.

"When is she coming?" Christine asked anxiously.

"She should be here next week," Sofie replied, giving Christine a wicked smile.

A week. A week! Christine could only pray that the managers did not fire her today, and that she could reign in her temper for a week, in hopes of meeting this most famous singer.

* * *

R & R 


	28. Senseless

Hope you all had a wonderful holiday season. I was going to post this the other day, but after looking, I realized it would not make for a very good present. That being said, I apologize in advance for the brutality at the end of this chapter and in the coming chapters. I know some of you may not forgive me for this...

Please review, as these chapters were very difficult for me to write, and I'd dearly love to know what you think.

_

* * *

_

_The moment I had been waiting for finally arrived. I was not, of course, introduced to Juliette Dvorak, but I was privy to more details of her life than most of the other employees at the opera, simply because I was Minna's assistant. Undoubtedly my diva did not fire me because finding a willing slave on such short notice would have been nearly impossible, especially with her reputation, and she must have realized that no matter what she did to me, I would not quit. _

_I stayed near Minna because Minna was forced to be gracious to Juliette, and I wanted to hear Juliette because she was full of dozens of wild stories on life as an opera star. She was a famous diva during the golden age of Grand Opera, traveled from London to Moscow and Cairo, and enjoyed a singing career of fifteen years before something happened to her voice._

_The official story was that a serious illness had robbed her of the lung capacity singers require to sustain a note for any length of time._

_Minna, however, gleefully relayed a brutal tale involving Juliette being choked by her enraged husband after finding her in the company of several men – at once. _

_After meeting her husband, I did not think that was possible. He was a dramatic man with a rich tenor voice, kind eyes, and a large girth. Alberto was also unmistakably attracted to other men, but doted on his wife in a way that was both confusing and sweet. _

_In any case, Juliette's powerful voice was gone, but she remained an enigmatic woman. She must have been nearing sixty, but one could never tell under the amount of makeup that she wore. Beneath the surface it was obvious life had not always been kind to her, and yet she was always smiling, always cheerful. _

_And she was ever the diva, a fact which drove Minna to distraction._

#-#-#-#

"Alberto darling," Juliette trilled, "Minna and I are going for a little stroll down by the river. Would you like to come?"

Christine stood primly behind Minna, and noticed that Alberto's eyes exhibited a particularly delightful gleam.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world, but..."

"What is it, darling? Where is Carlos?"

"Oh, he's visiting with the managers. I'll just have to accompany this lovely young woman," Alberto said, focusing on Christine.

"Are you certain?" Minna asked sharply. "She's my assistant. Surely we can find someone more suitable to accompany you."

"Alberto would enjoy escorting her, wouldn't you dear?" Juliette said so graciously that Minna could not help but agree.

"I would be delighted," Christine said airily, and accepted the older gentleman's arm. Behind her she could feel Minna glaring, but was determined to ignore her. Alberto smiled as she slid him a wicked look, and Christine tried hard not to laugh.

"How long have you been with her?" he murmured.

"Too long," she confided, then added, "a month."

"Dear God, a month of that nonsense!" he shuddered, glancing back to see his wife masking her own explosive temper. "I am so happy that Juliette was never so cruel."

"Your wife is very beautiful. I wish that I could have experienced the world as she has," Christine said wistfully.

"Child, you have no clue how demanding opera has been on her. How demanding it can be on anyone."

"Endless hours of practice," Christine said, closing her eyes, "sweating beneath the lights, feeling a voice that you never knew was possible well up inside and shake the chandelier. Ignoring the criticisms, focusing on the praise, and praying to God that when you wake up, it wasn't all a dream."

Alberto laughed softly, his brown eyes full of surprise. "It sounds as if you've been there yourself, little one."

"Me?" Christine asked coyly. "I'm just the assistant to a diva from hell."

"What is your name? Daina, isn't it?"

Christine inclined her head slightly, and wondered when the time would be right to show her talent to someone - perhaps to this popular couple, Alberto and Juliette, who had begun singing together in their twenties, and still remained close through marriage and friendship. Perhaps to the managers...perhaps to Minna herself.

"Have you ever performed?"

"A long time ago," Christine replied softly.

Alberto gave her a speculative glance. The girl could be no more than twenty, yet she spoke as if she were as ancient as he felt. Added to that, there was something familiar about her now that he had spoken to her. Something about her voice, about her smile. She reminded him of someone he'd seen singing somewhere, but this girl looked older, harder.

"Where are you from, originally?"

"Sweden," Christine replied instinctively.

"Sweden! Why, we have an estate in Stockholm, right near the Royal Theater! Juliette and I travel quite often, and visit many opera houses." Catching her off guard, he threw in, "Have you ever performed in Hannibal?"

If he wasn't mistaken the girl paled immediately, and a wild look came into her eyes.

"Hannibal?" Christine gasped, her voice rising to a panicked pitch. "Me, in Hannibal? And what would I have played, but a chorus girl?"

"Actually, I was thinking of Elissa," Alberto replied, continuing to stare.

"You're mistaken," Christine said firmly. "I've never had a major role in an opera. Certainly never lead soprano!"

Alberto noticed again a rather desperate look in her eyes, and he decided to let her be. Perhaps it was she, but it would not do to upset this lovely young stranger. Taking pity on her, he turned them out toward the water, deciding to change the subject.

"Prague is very beautiful, no? Sometimes Juliette thinks we should move back here permanently. We're getting too old for all these tiring vacations. This is the third dedication this year!"

Relaxing slightly, Christine threw him an amused glance. "If only my biggest concern was turning down such an honor!"

Oh, yes. This was definitely that girl from Paris. What had her name been? Surely Juliette would know, as she paid more attention to the female stars, and if he remembered correctly, the male lead had been Piangi, a rather distasteful fellow. Alberto recalled the great scandal, and that the girl had been caught in the middle of the opera ghost nonsense. Daina Christensen was definitely hiding something, even if it was only her real identity.

#-#-#-#

_One more glance, one more lingering stare, and I will kill Raoul de Chagny. Bernadette insists that he remain here, as there is nothing left of his home, and aristocrats are being __executed__ without trial. _

_Do I care? Most certainly not! And yet if he dies because of my hatred of him, Christine – wherever she is, will never forgive me._

_So I wait, and breathe, and think, and wonder if I can tolerate his presence for yet another day. _

_Francois has become like my shadow, and to my amusement, seems to have chosen my side over that of my irritating nemesis. As slowly as my leg heals, retaining my even temper has been quite the opposite. No one has been spared of late, not even Meg. After de Chagny's inappropriate remarks concerning her, I have kept my distance from them all. I cannot sleep for worrying over Christine, and cannot bear to show that weakness to anyone – especially her beloved fiancée. _

_I've made it to the surface twice, mostly to verify that Paris is still standing. The Communards are weakening by the day, being strangled both from the inside and outside. Unorganized, impulsive, they lack the brains to take what they need to support their own cause. They have not even touched the billions of francs that rest in the national bank! Our own government seized the opportunity to take the money, and are crushing the uprising as quickly as it started. _

_When they are suppressed completely, I fear the streets will never come clean. Men of profession have gone mad with power, and there are rumors of pétroleuse - women who commit arson on any building they believe represents the corrupt government they are rebelling against._

_There does seem to be hope for us at least. Francois had made plans to escape to someplace called Georgia. It is apparently a state in America, not a country in the Empire of Russia. Meg said that it sounds beautiful, and she asked Bernadette if we could all go there. I believe the girl would rather live anywhere than Paris at the moment, but I cannot see myself in America. They may go without me if they wish. My destination is not a place, but a person. _

_Christine. _

_Wherever she is, I will find her. _

_God help me if I ever have to leave her side again._

_#-#-#-#_

_May, 1871_

"It's over," Francois murmured. "They've stopped fighting."

Erik stared out over the remains of Paris, and thought it looked more like the beginning. The Communards would not go unpunished for their disobedience, and from the newspaper accounts that had been circulating the last few days, it was already happening in certain districts. "How soon can you get Bernadette and Meg out of the city?" he asked quietly.

"In a day or so."

"Do not mention my plans to de Chagny or anyone else," Erik reminded him. "If you go through the proper channels, then they should not question you for leaving. Simply state that you and your wife are taking your mother and sister out of the city because they are ill, if you are asked. If no one asks, say nothing. I will be near until I am sure you've gotten a safe distance from the soldiers."

"What about de Chagny?"

"He will not be punished because of his heritage," Erik said dismissively. "They will probably give him a damned medal for surviving or something."

Francois scoffed in agreement. "You don't think he'll turn you in, do you?"

"He won't get a chance."

"What if he names us all as your accomplices?"

Erik considered that a moment. "I'll kill him," he replied simply. "But it's me he wants. I don't think he will turn you in simply to punish me."

"I don't trust him," Francois muttered. "Not with my Patrice."

"You shouldn't," Erik said beneath his breath, continuing to watch smoke fill the city sky.

Once he found Christine, there would be no more fooling around with attempts at romance, no interference from de Chagny. Whether or not she agreed to marry him, he would take her as far from the past as he could. She had to be hurting now. She must think they had all abandoned her.

Suddenly America seemed like just the thing. A new life, a new beginning, with Christine Daae by his side. He could not let himself hope too much, but the last year had been a nightmare. God, how he missed her. Perhaps for just awhile he would allow himself to believe that what he wanted might come true.

"So this is where you disappeared to."

Erik turned to see Bernadette leaning on the arm of de Chagny, winded from the long trip to the roof.

"Bernadette," he replied quietly in welcome, then turned back to face Paris.

He missed the tightening of her mouth and the hurt in her eyes, but did look down at her as she stepped up beside him near the edge.

"The gunfire has ceased," she commented.

"It appears to be over. The majority of it anyway."

"Do you...do you think it would be safe to return home?"

"There isn't much left of it," Erik said, gentling his tone. Not that they would need to return there, but he could not tell anyone of his plans until it was time. "We can find other accommodations."

"What about...what about Christine?" she whispered.

Erik glared down at her, irritated that she forced him to say anything in front of de Chagny. "We will hire another inspector," he lied. "A dozen, if that is what it takes."

"Oh."

Erik studied her face in the light, startled to find it wrinkled and sagging. Her hair was unkempt and streaked with gray, and she no longer stood near him with her chin up and fire in her eyes. She looked defeated, and the knowledge of what his own anger had done was sickening. He wanted to apologize but didn't know how. He was about to put his arm around her, when suddenly she moved closer to the edge.

"Oh, that disobedient child!" Bernadette cried angrily. "I told her not to leave!"

"Meg?" Erik asked, leaning over to look.

Sure enough, Meg was headed down the street alone at a brisk trot, not even bothering to glance back to the safety of the opera house.

"Damn her!"

He turned sharply, leaning heavily on his cane and cursing as pain shot through his leg, but Francois stopped him.

"I'll go. I can move quicker," Francois offered, then darted to the roof's door.

Erik turned back to glare at Meg, determined to watch every step that she made and direct Francois to her if need be.

"Why did you leave her alone?" Erik demanded. "You know that she has no self restraint!"

"I left her with Patrice," Bernadette replied defensively, throwing her arms in the air. "I expected my daughter to listen to me...to listen to you. If it will make you feel better, I will chain her up from now on!"

"We should have done it in the first place," Erik snapped back. "She's been behaving indecently since we made her stop going to the Comique."

Bernadette's mouth fell open. "My daughter does not behave indecently! She's an angel! Can you blame her for wanting out of that tomb you call home? Don't you dare condemn my Meg! You're the one who is impossible to live with, stomping around, threatening to strangle anyone who so much as breathes in your direction!"

"Hey," Raoul cut in. "There's some-"

"Shut up," Erik bellowed. "This doesn't concern you."

"Meg-"

"I said shut up!"

"She's being accosted!" Raoul shouted. "Look!"

Erik flew to the edge and stared down at the street where Meg was standing in the midst of a group of soldiers.

"No," Bernadette whispered. "Meg! _Meg!"_

Erik clapped a hand over her mouth and pulled her behind a statue, peering down to make certain no one had heard. "Be silent! They won't do any-"

Just as he spoke, Meg turned as if to run back to the safety of the opera house, and a soldier fired. Disbelief raced through him as Meg's body jerked to the side, and she began crawling frantically on the street.

"No no no _no!_"

He was no longer certain who was speaking, if it was Bernadette, or if it was himself. The word reverberated through his heart, rose from his lungs, and was ultimately wrenched from his own throat.

_"No!"_

_"Meg," _Bernadette screamed. "Meg! No! No! Not my baby! _Not my Meg!"_

They both watched with horror as the soldier walked calmly to her flailing body, and fired a final shot into her head.


	29. That Which Death Brings

Juliette looked over in surprise as Alberto entered her rooms. Since he had rarely, if ever, entered her bedchamber in well over ten years, and never her bed, she could not help but feel suspicion as he glanced at the mound of luggage her maid had yet to unpack.

"Did you bring your scrapbooks?" he asked without greeting.

"My scrap...well why on earth do you want those?"

"Did you?" Alberto repeated.

Juliette glanced to her maid questioningly, and Terese immediately strode to the trunk which contained her mementos from traveling. Lifting the lid, Terese removed several layers of letters bundled together, then gestured to the silk bound books inside.

"Where is the one with Paris, the Opera Populaire? I think it will be two years ago in the fall?"

"Alberto, what is this about?" Juliette questioned.

He pointed to the trunk, and she rolled her eyes.

"It's the red and black one. _Now_ will you tell me?"

Instead of responding, he eagerly plucked the book from the top, as it had been one of the last ones she, or rather Terese, had bothered making. Ever curious of her husband's eccentric ways, Juliette moved aside so he could sit next to her as he perused the contents of the book. He scanned the pages with more enthusiasm than he had ever shown for what he called her, 'silly little habit', until at last he thumped the book with one plump finger.

"Ah ha! I knew it was her!"

Juliette glanced down at the article entitled, "Unknown Soprano Conquers Hannibal: La Carlotta Furious".

"Who is..." The words died off as Juliette caught the photograph beneath the headline, and a newly familiar face with wide, innocent eyes stared up at her with barely a smile. "Oh my God! That's Minna's assistant!"

Alberto grinned triumphantly, pleased to have shocked his wife so thoroughly. "I thought she looked familiar, but she denied singing Elissa. I might forget a name, but I never forget a performance."

Juliette, still too stunned to respond, plucked the book from Alberto's lap and scanned the article. While in Paris they had not paid much attention to the hype surrounding the casting of the opera, assuming it was based on the new management's good taste and a desire to rid themselves of Carlotta, another tyrannical lead soprano.

"What should we do? I mean, obviously she doesn't want to be found."

"Or does she?" Alberto mused. "I think anyone who has achieved that little bit of success, only to have it snatched away by scandal, would yearn for more. The world never gave her a chance after the fire."

"Dear God, I had forgotten about it! Should we...no...no...we shouldn't tell anyone. I quite liked that girl. She has backbone," Juliette decided immediately. "Should we tell her that we know?"

"Oh, I think she suspects that I'm suspicious. I fear I may have trod on her toes a bit today."

"Alberto," his wife chided. "I don't want to frighten her off. It's obvious she's hiding."

"But why? Do you think there were charges against her in Paris?"

"Charges of what? Surely they don't think she had anything to do with the fire. Maybe she's hiding from a jealous lover," Juliette said, "or a legion of them."

Alberto sent his wife a sly glance. "Not everyone has a legion of them, my dear."

"Well they should. It's good for a woman's disposition to have at least twenty gentlemen desiring her attention," she replied regally. "This girl doesn't look the type though. She seems very innocent, and yet, I can tell by the way she speaks to Minna that she has learned to be tough. Maybe I will talk to her. As I recall, she had a perfectly lovely voice, though she was quite nervous."

With a decisive little nod, Juliette closed the scrapbook.

"Do not mention this to anyone," she ordered both her maid and her husband. "Or else you will see who the real diva is around here."

"Yes, my lady," Terese replied, knowing precisely what her mistress meant.

"Yes, my love," Alberto responded, already seeing his wife's combat boots swirling around her delicate little feet.

#-#-#-#

The orchestra had just reached their crescendo when Minna began her latest tantrum. A reasonably successful season of Smetana's The Bartered Bride had just wrapped up, and the managers were testing three separate pieces from Bellini's Norma. All appeared to be going relatively well, even though the diva had been unable to reach several notes in the current aria.

"It is impossible! No one can sing those notes! They are like screeching! It is not music, and I refuse to perform something so hideous!"

"But Minna, darling," the manager cooed. "That is why it is such a coveted role. So few sopranos can reach these notes with perfect control, and with a little more practice..."

"I have been practicing for three weeks, you buffoon!" she snapped. "Three weeks of practicing this piece, the role for the opera we just performed, and acting in my duties as hostess, showing the dear, retired Juliette around! How much you demand of me, Sir!"

"But this piece," he reiterated, pointing to the score. "This is what opera is all about! Testing your limits, reaching new heights, new notes! Please reconsider."

"No!"

The cast members, including Christine and Alberto, watched as Minna stomped off stage – but not before flinging the score back into the orchestra pit. Sheet music floated through the air, and as if by fate, the top sheet featuring the disputed aria landed at Alberto's feet.

"This is a difficult role," he admitted to Christine. "Why, there must only be five singers in the world who can hit these notes, in this succession."

"May I see?" Christine asked with a timid smile.

As Alberto had warned, Christine could see how difficult the piece was as she glanced over the notes, and yet...

"Would you care to try?" he asked gently.

Stricken, Christine shook her head furiously and dropped the score. "No. No, I could never..."

"And why not?" a well cultured voice asked from behind her. "I think you might just reach those notes, with a little practice."

Christine could not even speak as she stared at Juliette, but quite suddenly she knew that they had discovered her secret. They were looking at her with curious, eager expressions, as if she might divulge the secrets of the phantom, the opera fire, or perhaps life itself.

"May we speak to you privately," Juliette asked, then lowering her voice, added, "Mademoiselle Daae?"

As if sensing Christine's distress, Alberto patted her shoulder gently as they led her to the back of the theater. "We mean you no harm, dear girl. It's just that..."

"We would like to see if you can do it," Juliette interrupted with a cat – like smile. "And if you could preempt Minna from her position of power."

"No," Christine whispered forcefully. "No, I won't do it."

"Do what, my dear?" Juliette asked. "I know you've thought about it. Hell, at my age, I wish that I could do it. Alas, I haven't the strength to blow out a candle normally, let alone with my voice. But you..."

"I will not! If you know about my past, then you know what happened the last time a diva was replaced by me. I won't do it!"

"You want to sing, don't you?"

"Of course I do!"

Juliette smiled patiently. "Then how do you intend to become famous? I assure you, my dear, nice girls are not simply handed the choice roles in operas by asking kindly for them." Her eyes narrowed to calculating slits. "If you want something, you have to take it!"

"I want to _earn_ it," Christine replied emphatically. "Why must I resort to games and deceit? Why can't I audition and learn-"

"Because this is opera, darling, not charm school," Juliette replied, and swept her arm out across the theater. "Look before you. When I was just a little older than you are, I came to audition here. They wouldn't let me on the stage. I traveled to four countries and twelve opera houses before I found a role, and it was pitiful. Truly pathetic! I had the silent role in Il Muto!"

Christine felt her face heat. Had it really been such an insignificant role? What did it say about her, when she had been thrilled to perform it? Even in the silent role, she had learned her part, loved to play it, and even was pleased despite Erik's irritation that she had not been given the role he demanded.

"You have a God-given talent, my girl, but if you do not take advantage of the opportunity before you, then foolishness will rule the rest of your life."

"What opportunity? I can't just walk onto the stage and sing for them!"

"You can't?" Alberto asked wryly. "Why, is there something wrong with your legs?"

Christine was about to retort when Juliette cupped her cheeks in both hands, and forced her to look directly into her eyes. "If you want to sing, Christine Daae, then come to my townhouse for the remainder of this week and practice. Forget about Minna. Forget about what happened in Paris. You may not succeed Minna as lead soprano, but I guarantee that if you amaze them here, then the next opera company will be throwing themselves at your feet."

"But my name...," Christine blinked back tears. "If they find out who I am, they will..."

"As far as the world is concerned, you are Daina Christensen. No one has to know about your past, and if truth be told, you can use that to your advantage. Men especially like a mysterious woman, and trust me darling, if you intrigue the _right_ men, the rest of the sheep in this world will follow."

_# - # - # - # - # - # - #_

_There can be nothing worse than feeling the loss of your child. Nothing worse than watching a mother stricken with grief. As long as I live, I will never forget that scream released from Bernadette. A harrowing cry which raised the hair on my neck, which vibrated in my ears with such pain that I felt ill. _

_I cannot fathom such pain._

_I once thought that there was nothing worse than loving a person and knowing unequivocally that they did not return that feeling._

_How wrong and foolish I was. How insensitive and selfish I have been. _

_I would give my life, my soul to bring Meg back. I would spend eternity in Hell as the devil's apprentice, or live a lifetime of perfection in hopes of meeting God and asking Him to send her home to Bernadette. How is it that I did not know I could love her? _

_How could I not have known that such a love was possible? _

_I should have known. I should have told her - and now I will never have that chance. _

_Meg, the sister of my heart, I am so sorry. I promised that I would protect you, and as with Christine, I have again failed..._

_# - # - # - # - # - # _

_"Meg! Meg! Oh God, no!"_ Bernadette screamed, lunging towards the edge of the roof.

Erik grabbed fistfuls of black dress and hauled her back, sending both of them sprawling. "You can't help her. No! You can't help her!" he shouted, pinning her down.

Bernadette's eyes were unfocused, and she fought him like a wild animal, scratching and kicking and screaming. Over and over again, she repeated her daughter's name at a decibel that shook his eardrums. At some point Raoul stepped in and helped, trying to fit his hand over her mouth.

"Be quiet, Bernadette," Raoul pleaded desperately. "I'm so sorry, so very sorry, but you must be quiet."

She bit Raoul, then kicked Erik. Freeing herself, she tried again to vault over the rooftop.

"Stop," Erik exploded, grabbing her by the waist and hauling her inside.

Raoul shut the rooftop door and placed himself in front of it, lest she decide to try it again, but she began moaning, crying, screaming all at once.

"Let's get her downstairs," Erik whispered in shock.

He guided them half the way, then turned back to Raoul.

"Keep her inside the theater. Take her back down to Patrice. Do _not_ let her out of your sight."

"I won't," Raoul promised, meeting his gaze. "I won't let her out of my sight."

Erik ran as fast as he could on his injured leg down to the lobby, only stopping to look into the street. The soldiers were gone. Francois stood on the steps of the theater, gazing numbly at the horror before him. Slowly Erik walked across the pavement, a knot forming steadily within as he approached Meg's body.

They had shot her from behind, twice in the back, once in the head. With a heavy heart, Erik turned her over, already knowing she was gone. Her face, so cheerful and impish in life, was horrible in death. She was unrecognizable. Her light tresses were stained deep red, and he could see inside parts of her that were never meant to be seen. Bright, lovely Meg, murdered at eighteen.

He could not think beyond getting her inside, away from the soldiers who had done this horrible crime. He could not even think of revenge, only of getting her back to Bernadette. As he prepared himself to lift her body though, he could not imagine giving her to Bernadette like _this._

"Francois," Erik called hoarsely.

He glanced up to see the man still standing on the opera steps, frozen in disbelief.

"Francois! Bring me...something. Anything...," Erik whispered, nearly tracing the shape of her face with his hands, but not quite touching her. He began to tremble violently, unaware of tears that fell onto her blood soaked dress. "Something...please. Oh, Meg. Meg..."

Suddenly Francois was beside him, handing him his jacket. Erik could not remember why he hadn't taken off his own. He could think of nothing, nothing except that _nothing_ would ever be the same again.

"They thought she was a pétroleuse," Francois whispered. "They just...shot her."

He wrapped her gently, shaking as emotion began to flood his dulled senses.

Unable to stop himself, he kissed her bloodied forehead once, then covered what remained of her face.

Those steps back to his home were not nearly long enough. Raoul was standing at the door, his gaze centered on the bundle in Erik's arms. Nothing needed to be said, no questions asked. Erik stepped around him without a word, his eyes seeking out Bernadette who was sobbing in Patrice Lanier's bewildered arms.

"Bernadette," he said tonelessly.

Slowly he knelt, keeping his arms protectively around Meg's body. Bernadette turned to stare, and slowly began to shake her head.

"No. No, you're mistaken. That isn't her. That can't be her!"

"Bernadette, I'm so sorry..."

"That isn't Meg!" she screeched, and flew across the room towards him. She stopped herself just before yanking the jacket away, her glazed eyes meeting his. "It can't be. No, it can't be my daughter. Not my Meg. My baby girl..."

"She's gone," Erik whispered, and reached for her hand. "I'm so sorry..."

Bernadette stared in horror at the blood staining Erik's clothing and skin, and then gently pulled the covering away. Instinctively all a mother's love pushed away any revulsion, and her only thought was to hold her child.

"Give me my daughter," she said, hollowness drowning out reason. "I have to fix her. She can't look like this when we go on the ship. People will stare so."


	30. Live For Me

Okay, this is two chapters, so that means twice the reviews, right? LOL. This is also the next to last chapter before part II begins...which is almost like a completely different story. I am almost finished writing the ending, all that's left is some good editing (from my **_wonderful _**editor) and a then I'll be done. If I get good reviews each chapter I'll combine more of them this way. Fanfiction spoils authors you know! Nowhere else would you expect a review each chapter except here!

Also please notice the r-r-rating change! I moved it up for the violence that took place recently and for future...ahem..._ya know_.

On that note, there is a new man in my life. Sigh, yes it's true! But don't tell Erik about Mick St. John, the vampire from CBS's _Moonlight _on Friday nights. If Erik knew I'm thinking of doing a story for him, he would not be happy! If Erik knew I was thinking of _doing _Mick St. John, well...oops! Did I just say that aloud?

* * *

Erik refused to leave Bernadette's side, and the eerily placid expression on her face had him very worried. While he could hardly prevent himself from weeping or lashing out at someone, Bernadette sat near Meg's body and held her hand. She talked to Meg as if she were alive, telling the girl that practice would let out early so she could rest. The way she brushed the blood streaked strands of hair, how she tenderly touched the side of Meg's face that had not been destroyed, and the complete calm with which she did these things baffled Erik. Why wasn't she angry? Screaming? Crying?

It was only when Patrice knelt next to him did he realize what was happening to his dearest friend.

"Erik, you have to get her away from Meg," Patrice whispered. "She is in a state of shock, and you will lose her too if you do not snap her out of it."

He stared helplessly at mother and daughter. "I don't know what to do," he whispered, swallowing hard at the thought of separating them. "I...I can't..."

"You must," she insisted gently. "You are the only one who can." She took his hand and set a glass of wine in it. "Give her this. We will wait until she falls asleep."

"You want me to drug her?"

"It's the only way, I think. Ask her first, of course. If she will not allow us to take Meg to prepare her body, then give her the wine."

Erik took the glass, uncertainty choking him. Would Bernadette hate him for this? Or was she too numb to even realize Meg was gone? The way she looked at her daughter, love shining in her eyes and not grief - was disturbing.

Resigned, he accepted the wine. "Tell Francois and de Chagny that there is a coffin in the room beneath the torture chamber. I've showed Francois how to open it," he said quietly. "Are you sure there is enough in this to put Bernadette out?"

"There is enough to put your horse down," Patrice confirmed, "but she shouldn't need it all. She's already exhausted."

It was true, he realized as he looked at Bernadette. She had remained vigilant, never leaving Meg's side all night, and it was nearly a full day since Meg had been killed. If it were left up to Bernadette, Erik knew that she would die right next to her daughter.

Using the cane for support, he wearily got to his feet and approached her.

"Bernadette?"

Her eyes met his, instantly defensive. "What do you want?"

"I...I thought you might..."

"Go away. Leave me and Meg alone," she said, turning away.

"Bernadette, I thought you might like a glass of wine," Erik said, nearly choking on his offer.

She cast him such a malevolent glare that he knew she would not take it if he pressed her. Without another word he set it near her on the floor, then went into the torture chamber where Francois was just opening the vault. Erik shut the door to conceal their activities before helping the men to heft the coffin out of the space. He stared numbly down at the long black case that had been meant for himself.

Now it would be Meg's grave, her final resting place, down here in this place that she hated above all others. The thought of leaving her in darkness for eternity was suddenly unbearable.

"She will hate it here," he said softly. "She would not want to be entombed here."

Francois gave him a compassionate glance. "We don't have any other options. Paris has not buried its dead in cemeteries in centuries. If she were not here, she would be in the Empire. Would you rather take her there?"

Erik gave a quick shake of his head. That place with its artistic display of the bodies of millions of Parisians - it seemed disrespectful to even think of leaving her bones to be scattered and left for the rats to nibble on. "No. Perhaps the Bois?"

"You want to carry a coffin to the Bois?" Raoul asked with a frown. "My family has a private mausoleum. She would be above the ground. As I recall, there is still a space available - mine. I hope that I will not be needing it anytime soon."

As much as Erik would have liked to turn Raoul down, he did not. Without an undertaker to perform an embalming, Meg's body would deteriorate quickly. They could not leave her here under any circumstances, and their options were limited.

"It will be up to Bernadette," he replied gruffly. "The offer is...ah...kind of you."

Erik walked out of the torture chamber, most likely leaving de Chagny with his mouth hanging open. Patrice was laying Bernadette onto her back and she was out cold. Next to her was an empty wine glass.

"What do you need me to do?"

Patrice glanced up at him. "Take Meg into the washroom. I will take good care of her," she said gently. "Francois will help me. He's done this before."

"With your father?"

"And my brother," she added softly. "You should also tuck Bernadette into bed. She needs her strength."

Erik nodded, wondering if he would ever find his own again.

#-#-#-#

_Bernadette was dying from within, and her grief touched us all. I knew that she would never fully recover from the shock of seeing her daughter die so horrifically. I also knew I would never forget. I never wanted to forget. As long as I live, I will remind myself of what I lost with that dear girl, that sweet child. A bond that I denied, a love that I did not wish to feel because I had no sense of what love really meant._

_Did I love Christine in the same way that I did Meg? _

_Perhaps I did. _

_That is not to say that I loved them each in a passionate, desperate manner. That love was reserved for Christine alone. But I also loved Christine deeply, with the affection of a teacher, a friend - something more. _

_Meg was something more._

_Bernadette is something more._

_If I must, I will beg God not to take all that I have left._

_#-#-#-#_

By the time Bernadette opened her eyes, Patrice and Francois had laid Meg to rest in the coffin. On Patrice's advice, Erik was seated at her bedside when she awoke.

"How do you feel?" he asked gently.

She blinked in bewilderment for a moment, and then lay back against the bed. "Dizzy," she whispered. "Where...where is she?"

"Bernadette..."

"Do not placate me. Where is Meg?"

"Patrice has taken care of everything."

Bernadette threw the covers aside and was bolting out of the room before Erik could rise. "Where is my daughter?" she demanded, stumbling under the after effects of the laudanum.

She gazed wildly around the room, unaware of the pitying eyes that stared. A black coffin sat near the door, the lid closed. At the sight of it, Bernadette felt her legs begin to give way.

"Easy," Erik murmured, catching her about the shoulders. "Just rest easy, Bernadette."

"I wanted it to be a dream. All a dream," she cried softly. He turned her in his arms, away from the coffin. "A nightmare..."

"Let's get you back into bed," he said, leading her into the room again.

Like an obedient, unquestioning child, Bernadette crawled across the coverlet and lay her head on a pillow. Her daughter, her life, Meg was gone. For a long while she lay there, unaware of Erik's worried gaze on her. She thought of her girls, both of them, and the day each of them had come into her life.

Had she known that both of them would leave her so abruptly, there were so many things she would have done differently.

"Do you remember when Meg was a baby?" Bernadette asked, her tone a dry, broken rasp. "She wanted to be a ballerina, just like me. She wanted it so much she ruined the costume I wore when performing in La Sylphide. It was the last costume of my career - something I treasured, or thought I treasured. I was so angry with her..."

"Bernadette, she knows that you love her."

"I want her back, Erik. I want my daughter," Bernadette sobbed against the bed. Curling into a fetal position, the tears at last fell, so much pain ripping through her heart it felt as if it would never stop. "And my Christine. My poor Christine. They're both gone, and it's all my fault. I can't live without them. I don't _want_ to live without them."

Fierce emotion gripped Erik. Love and pain and fear propelled him across the room, and Bernadette went willingly into his arms, breaking him apart and shattering him as well. Her pain reached down to the very blackest part of him, rendering it inconsequential. Erik rocked her trembling, frail body, and willingly lowered the defenses behind which he had so closely guarded himself. He could not give her Meg or Christine, but he could give her all of himself for once, and hope to God it was enough.

"Then live for me," he whispered against her hair. "Live for me."

#-#-#-#

Three days passed, but Christine had not ventured to Juliette's for lessons. She was nervous about what they might expect of her, terrified they might think she would willingly usurp Minna from the diva's throne, and that she might fail horribly again if she did attempt it. But the unconscionable acts of violence on the cast members continued, and with them, Christine's temper began to boil to the surface with increasing vigor.

How dare this woman use her position as lead soprano to punish those she considered beneath her? If Erik had taught her nothing else, it had been that everyone in the cast was significant, no matter how small a role they played in bringing a performance together. It was one of many reasons he had complained about Carlotta during their lessons, and Christine now understood his frustration when the managers did nothing to keep her temper in check.

When Minna delivered a slap to Sofie for no apparent reason, Christine felt a righteous anger. The very next day she marched over to the Dvorak residence one street away from the opera, and faced a beaming Juiliette.

Juliette's dedication was four days away, and it was decided that Christine would practice for the aria Minna had announced could not be sung. Alberto played for them, and Juliette provided a critical ear, deciding that with Christine's range, it was indeed possible for her to hit the notes.

Christine already knew the aria by heart after having listened to Minna attempting to rehearse it for the last month. She could already sing a great deal of it, but knew there was more to singing an aria on the stage than while cleaning or bathing. To make matters worse, Juliette was an aggressive, excitable woman, where Erik had been a stern and supportive teacher. Working under a woman who did not know her and yet expected her to perform flawlessly was rather unnerving, and by the end of the four days, Christine was exhausted both mentally and physically.

Juliette had kept her sequestered in their private residence for the duration of the week, even going so far as to forge a letter to Minna stating that Christine was ill and being considerate in not passing her sickness on to anyone in the opera.

On the morning before the dedication, Alberto arrived with a stocky, but fashionably dressed gentleman named Carlos. Christine understood them to be lovers, although they appeared and behaved as friends. She was surprised at how readily Juliette accepted the man, but considering Juliette's own reputation, Christine assumed that theirs had never been a conventional marriage.

"My child," Carlos announced in a supremely haughty tone. "You are a disgrace to womanhood!"

Taken aback, Christine's mouth hung open. "I...I b-beg your-"

"No begging! Just do as I say, and I will forgive you for letting this beauty go to waste! That dress!" He shuddered, then his eyes showed disgust as they drifted over her unbound hair. Carlos slid a derisive look at Alberto. "Why didn't you tell me she would need so much work? I thought her dress at the opera was simply dreadful...but this..."

"I beg your pardon!" she protested, indignant. "I don't have to listen to you! I am perfectly capable of dressing myself!"

Carlos scoffed loudly. "If you were adequately capable of it, every man within a hundred miles would be lolling their tongues at you! How you managed to capture the attention of that blond Adonis who follows you around the opera is beyond me. Don't you agree, Alberto?"

Alberto held his hands up in a gesture of surrender, before holding the door open for Terese, who had been visiting every shop in Prague the last few days, searching for the right dress. "I'm not getting in the middle Juliette's project. She's all yours for now, just remember - no corsets!"

Carlos rolled his eyes and took a good, long look at Christine's frame. Amazingly she felt no urge to cover herself, as his eyes seemed to be calculating the options of her bodice, rather than leering as most men might.

"Opera singers," he muttered. Sweeping his gaze from her unruly hair to the worn hem of her dress, he had his doubts that this one would be a rising starlet any time soon. "If I agree to help you, then you will do as I say. You will wear what I tell you to wear, smile because you know you look good in it, and love every minute of it."

Christine stared at him, wondering if he was serious.

"Correct?" Carlos barked, waving his hands in the air.

"Ye-yes!" she stammered, and within moments he had stripped her down to her chemise, and was sifting through her hair as if to check for lice.

They poked her, prodded her, burned her, and by the time she had been tucked into the dress and her hair had been ironed flat (a feat that seemed impossible, but true!), she was riddled with exhaustion, but it could not beset the excitement she felt when Juliette announced that it was time to leave for the opera house.

# - # - # - # - #

The shots reverberating through the house made them all jump to their feet. Erik opened the door cautiously and looked down each length of tunnel that went past his door, but could see nothing in the inky darkness. Shots continued, as well as screams. People were begging for their lives, and the only answer was a resounding crack of gunfire.

"What is it?" Bernadette asked, her face drawn and pale. "Have they found us?"

"I don't think so," Erik replied. She moved to stand beside him in the doorway, and behind him Raoul, Patrice, and Francois stood motionless. "From what I can hear, it sounds as if the Communards are seeing their new government ultimately crushed."

"Christ Jesus," Raoul muttered. "Is there any way to be sure of that? Any way to stop them?"

"No," Bernadette said sharply, fixing Erik with a pleading gaze. "We're staying right here, right here with Meg."

Erik glanced to the torture chamber where Meg's coffin still lay. Despite his promises to Bernadette that Meg would be safe in the de Chagny's mausoleum, she refused to leave her daughter. They had not found a safe way out of the city yet, and Francois had nearly been caught twice leaving the theater to find out if trains would begin running soon. It seemed the only way out of this damned place was exile, death, or waiting in long lines to reach the gates - then being questioned by a multitude of authorities. Not even de Chagny had been able to make a connection to his friends in the government. The old government was no longer the same, and seemed out for blood now in any case.

"I need to be sure they aren't going to find us," Erik told Bernadette gently. "You know that I won't be seen, Bernadette. I have to make certain-"

"_Please _don't leave," she said, closing her eyes. "Please, Erik. I...I couldn't bear it if something happened to you."

Reluctantly Erik nodded, but hours later, after the shots had ceased, he and de Chagny walked toward the source of the sound, and came upon a scene at the edge of the lake that made both of them stop in their tracks. Dozens of bodies lay scattered across the floor, some of them floating in the water, all of them dead. They had all been executed for crimes against their country - men and women of all ages, some of them younger than Meg, all with equal expressions of horror on their faces.

The water beneath the opera ran red with their blood.

Erik knew then that it was time to leave his home, and this time forever.

#-#-#-#

The guest list at Minna's dedication was nothing less than a roster of Europe's most influential members of the world of music. Composers, famous singers and musicians, theater owners, and wealthy patrons of opera from all over the continent were crowded into a sweltering banquet room, their hopes set on seeing Juliette Dvorak again, then perhaps eating enough to sink a ship. A small part of the evening would be given to Minna, the current diva, where she would perform an aria from Juliette's break out role in _Lucia di Lammermoor_. It was during the time, when Minna was tossing out orders, and cast members, who had recently been given a reprieve due to Daina Christensen's appointment as her assistant, struggled to meet the diva's demands, that an unexpected thing happened.

Juliette, looking every inch a woman in control of her own party, took the stage. The room fell silent as they waited for her to speak, then followed the gesture of her hand as she beckoned at someone toward the back of the room.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you from the bottom of my heart for the honor which you have bestowed upon me today, both with this dedication and with your presence. I very much enjoyed my life on stage. As in all things though, nothing lasts, but I always hoped that there would be someone special to replace me in the roles I loved so dearly. Someone who would show the world the meaning of song, of how very unique a bond one must have with music, and how much music deserves to be respected, just as all of you, as performers, managers, composers, deserve the same respect. Too often you are subject to temperaments we all wish that we could be rid of, but I am living proof that one does not need to hurt others for the sake of improving the performance." Juliette took a deep breath, realizing she had everyone's attention. Minna, looking quite confused, had come around from the side room where she had been preparing, and was staring up at Juliette along with the crowd. Again, Juliette beckoned for Christine, and Alberto put his hands on Christine's bum and gave her a gentle shove.

"The Theater of the Estates' very talented soprano, Minna Ostheim, has just finished a grueling performance schedule, so I am sure she will happily relinquish her duties here today to entertain you, and instead join the audience in enjoying a very special musical performance. I would like to introduce my protege, a young woman who has had extensive training, and who possesses exquisite beauty, and a divine voice. She also has a rare, tender heart for this sort of life, one that I think opera needs. May I present, Daina Christensen."

_"What?" _Minna screeched, craning her neck.

Juliette cast her a scornful look, and then bowed respectfully to Christine as she joined Juliette on the stage.

Beneath the lights, the questioning stares of the crowd, Christine's composure faltered for the briefest of moments. It was no longer a matter of revenge, and if she were honest with herself, it never had been. Instead she longed to prove her worth, prove that the years spent training with Erik had not been in vain, and that her voice could reach the heights he had always said it could. Juliette cued the conductor, and Christine took her final breath of anonymity.

When Christine sang that night, she accomplished for herself what Erik had failed to have thrust upon her.

It felt as if she brought the world to it's knees.

# - # - # - # - # - #

Not that Christine hadn't expected it, but she was fired the moment the guests left the opera house. Minna's voice could be heard echoing throughout the theater, and to the amusement of everyone still present, the managers turned their backs on her, disgusted with the jealous display that had occurred following Christine's earth shattering performance.

Christine was startled to see Roman standing near the back of the room, leaning casually against the wall.

At the moment, however, Minna was demanding her attention so that she could continue to hurl insults at her.

"I pay you to repair my dresses, and you do nothing but play pranks! I knew you were taking them in when you should have been letting them out! And you steal! I am missing three pairs of shoes, and a brooch that my mother gave to me! I want it back!"

Christine raised her chin. "I am not a thief, and furthermore, I don't have to listen to you any longer. You fired me, remember?"

"If you think that lackluster performance will make any difference here, think again! My managers signed a contract with me, and I will not be breaking it! Especially not to move over for you!" she said contemptuously. "I won't stand for it."

"No one is asking you to," Christine replied, giving her a mock salute with a glass of champagne. "In fact, I've already been offered a position in another theater. Several of them, actually."

Minna's eyes darted around, and Christine could see the quickening of her pulse. Recognizing the signs, Christine knew that she was looking for something to throw. Seeing a plate of food still left unattended, Minna reached for it.

"Ah ah ah," Christine chided, moving to block her. "I wouldn't try that if I were you."

"Untalented bitch," Minna snarled. "I trust Juliette has taught you every technique that she knows to help you succeed in opera. Lying on your back and kneeling...she's the best at both."

Frowning, Christine regarded her glass of champagne. "Well, everyone has to be good at something," she said with a twisted smile, then emptied the liquid down Minna's dress. "I trust you will remain good at inspiring thoughts of murder in every performer who meets you. Perhaps we will meet again, my dear."

Christine stalked away before Minna could respond, and found Roman covering his mouth to hide laughter.

"Where is the sweet girl I met weeks ago, and what have you done with her?"

"She's sharpening her claws," Christine replied, casting a glance behind her to ensure Minna was not coming at her with a knife. "At least for now. I hope it isn't always like this for me."

Roman's face turned serious, and he led her outside into the cool night air. "I had hoped that you would still consider my suit, Daina." he said, reaching out to touch a strand of straight, well managed hair.

Christine smiled, and for a moment, wished that things could be different, that she could find a nice young man to marry, that no one would ever expect more of her than to cook, clean, and produce heirs. Roman would make a fine husband, and from what Juliette had casually observed, a generous lover. Although Christine could not know about such things, he was a very handsome man, and with a fine physique. Any woman would be honored to catch his eye, and yet his smile did not leave her breathless as she would have liked, and he bore too many opinions of what she should and should not do, when they barely knew one another.

If she encouraged Roman now, she would lose that precious new part of herself she had discovered, and she was entirely unwilling to let it go.

He would make a fine husband - but not for her.

"You belong up there," Roman admitted, surprising her. "I have no place in your life, do I?"

"I can never have enough friends, Roman. One never knows when things might change. I hope that you find a woman who will be everything that you want in a wife."

With a small bow, he took her hand. "And I hope that you become the star you are meant to be, and achieve the fame that you deserve. Goodbye, Daina."

Christine watched him walk into the night, and realized she no longer feared this new adventure, this new life; the one she had created for herself.

#-#-#-#

_My success came at the price of losing my new friends: Sofie, William, Roman, and the two older ladies who had helped me to my feet when I first arrived in Prague, Frau Merckle and Frau Novotný. The ending of their acquaintance was bittersweet, but I could bear it. I just could not forget the people who had brought my life to this point: the Giry's, Erik, and Raoul. They were hundreds of miles away, and Juliette strongly discouraged me from traveling to Paris. I sent letters to all of my old friends, begging them to respond and leaving Juliette's addresses in Stockholm, Prague, and Milan. So instead of going to Paris, I went to Berlin._

_Mamma Valerius had returned from Italy, and cried so hard upon seeing me that I felt terrible for not leaving a note and letting her know where I had gone. When I left the city, I had not wanted anyone to find me. If the man that I attacked and robbed had gone to the authorities, I would have been in a coil I did not want to be in. _

_Yes, Madame Giry had written her during the beginning of the war, and yes, she knew that something had gone awry in my travel plans. Raoul desperately searched for me, but returned at the height of the war to be with his parents. I heard nothing of my Angel, of Erik. _

_Alberto and Carlos accompanied me to visit her, and they enthralled her with tales of my success without saying how they knew me. I feared that she might have lost touch with reality. She rambled on for a few moments about Raoul's valet taking her to supper, and then told us all that a gentleman was coming round asking questions about me._

_At that I became nervous, and cut my visit short. The last thing that I wanted threatening my new chance at being a star, was the resurfacing of my horrible, depraved act. I promised Mamma Valerius that I would write to her often, but I was worried about being arrested for my crimes. In the end I decided to write to her as Daina, not Christine, but I worried that she might not associate us as the same person. _

_I kept a vigilant eye on news from Paris, but the accounts spoke of carnage and little else. It seemed hopeless that anyone survived, but I knew that Erik would go to ground, and did not believe that anyone would find him in his maze of tunnels beneath the opera. _

_He would take Madame Giry and Meg with him. I knew from his journal that his impatience with Madame was a mask of another sort. He held her, as do I, in the highest regard. I did fear for Meg, remembering how much she hated the darkness, and the pairing of her mischievousness with Erik's irritable nature could be explosive. _

_I worried for Raoul and his parents, knowing that at least half of the war would be against their favor. It seemed that the Commune divided my friends as neatly as the past had done. On one side, the Communards would support the ideals that Madame Giry upheld, while the old government would bolster the necessity of families like the de Chagny's. It was a well oiled machine that had worked for centuries, and no matter the abolition of the aristocracy, some would always have greater power than others._

_I was coming to realize what I had escaped in marrying Raoul. Roman seemed tame compared to what I would have endured with the de Chagny's, and I know I would have experienced a complete loss of self. Despite my shame of following that man into his room and robbing him, I was proud of everything else that I had done. I looked forward to the training that Juliette insisted on, and I endured Carlos and his myriad demands over the complete change of my appearance. By a month's end, I did not think anyone would ever recognize me as the person I had been. I wore exquisite gowns, my hair was sedately coiled about my neck instead of wildly springing in whichever direction it desired, and wherever I went, men paid me the courtesy of the most sincere compliments._

_Juliette schooled me harshly on the subject of men once she learned of my innocence, and at that point I realized how greatly she regretted the mistakes she had made. She confided things, I swear, that could make the most seasoned whore blush, and yet I was not sickened, nor was I incredibly fascinated by her life. I was saddened by it, for she had never found true love, despite the many places she had searched for it. Marrying Alberto had been a decision years ago to protect him from rumors, and one that she said she would never change. She loved him deeply, of that I was certain, and I could tell that he felt the same way. It was not a love with which I was familiar, but I could not help but admire their friendship. They were utterly devoted to each other's happiness._

_I hoped that one day I could find something of the same. Friendship and devotion._

_And yet I could not help but also dream of passion and love - deep, abiding, forbidden._


	31. The First Ending, A New Beginning

_Savannah - 1930 _

* * *

Cassandra quietly closed the journal as the oil lamp began to sputter in the late afternoon light. Adjusting it's display, she looked to Gregory as she tried to surreptitiously dry her eyes. 

"How horrible for Aunt Bernadette, how horrible for all of them. Gregory, I'm beginning to believe that there is a great deal more to our family history than our grandparents have told us."

Gregory shrugged. He too was more subdued than normal after what they had just read. "That's not a part of French history that we studied much in school. They mainly taught us about the French revolution or the Great War. How do you think they all managed to get out of France?"

"I imagine we'll find the answer if we keep reading," Cassandra said. "I'm more interested in the relationships between them all, and Grandfather's life at the Opera before the Siege started."

That part did not make sense to Gregory either, there were too many veiled references to a great tragedy. Was his Grandfather somehow involved?

"I think it would be awful being forced to stay underground all that time. I feel sorry for Meg – I wish we could have known her." he said thoughtfully.

"Yes, poor Grandfather – first he loses Christine, and then Meg."

"Why didn't he try to find her after the war? It just doesn't make sense." Gregory demanded, touching one of the journals. "Where was he all those years? Where was she?"

The door opened behind them, and Cassandra tried to shove the journals out of sight, but their Aunt Emmaline's sharp eyes caught them. "Well, what do we have here?" she asked gaily. "Two snooping children, caught up in a mighty mystery?"

Plucking one of the journals from the sofa, she sat down beside Cassandra and drew the girl's feet into her lap.

"Ah yes, the tale of my ever conflicted parents," she said, flipping it open. "Do you know how they met? No, I don't suppose you would. That isn't something they ever put down in these things."

"You know?" Cassandra asked, struggling to sit up straighter. "Do you know everything?"

Emmaline cocked an eyebrow at her. "Maybe. Maybe not. It depends on how good you are at keeping secrets."

"Secrets?" Gregory snorted. "Well you might as well forget about telling her anything." He launched out of his chair onto Emmaline's other side, and dramatically tossed his booted feet onto the table as he slid an arm around her shoulders. "Now me? I am _solid_. Stellar. You don't have to worry about me spilling anything."

Cassandra poked him with her foot, and with an irritating smile, Gregory grabbed it and tickled it viciously.

Emmaline squinted to avoid flying fingers and toes, and tried to separate her brothers' offspring before she lost an eye.

"Hey! Cut it out!" she said, laughing. She thumped Gregory on the head, and pinched Cassandra's calf, effectively stopping their horseplay. "I won't tell you a thing if I'm injured!"

"He started it," Cassandra retorted.

"Did-"

"Enough already! How old are you?"

Gregory scowled. Cassandra pouted. Each of them leapt at the same time to point to the journal in their Aunt's lap.

"Tell us everything!" Cassandra demanded, slapping the book with her palm. "Grandfather doesn't talk about the war, and Grandmother wasn't there. What happened to him after he left Paris? Where did he go?"

"He came here," Emmaline replied simply. "To this very house. He became a teacher, and lived with Bernadette Giry. Years later, he became engaged. They had been, shall we say, well acquainted? It was the closest he ever thought he would be to happiness."

"Because of his face?" Gregory blurted out.

Emmaline stared across the room, remembering the first time she had noticed her father was unlike other fathers. As a child he had been a giant of a man who could rope the moon, sing with angels, and make her mother laugh, cry, and scream all in the breadth of an hour. But then she had started school - and heard the word _monster._ It had taken her father's hesitant, almost tearful explanation to make her understand they were talking about him. Even then she had not quite grasped that it was because of his face, and before Simon and Richard had come along, she had endured bloody noses and skinned knees from classmates whose ignorant parents had passed along their prejudices.

"It wasn't always that way," Emmaline replied softly. "Not here. Not at first. People were curious about him, and wanted to know everything about him, but he wanted nothing to do with them. It made them all the more curious, until he made a few select, and influential acquaintances. Father finally had all that he thought he had wanted, and only then did he realize that it wasn't what he really desired."

"What do you mean?" Cassandra asked, frowning. "I thought he wanted friends. A _lady_ friend."

"Oh, he did," she chuckled. "Very much so. But, not at the cost of his honor. He had made friends with people not worth his time." Emmaline touched the tip of Cassandra's nose and pressed in. "Luckily your Grandfather is a very smart man. He didn't allow them to change him. He found his own peace, at least until a certain opera singer showed up in Savannah."

"What happened then?" Cassandra questioned, impatient to know more. "His fiancée couldn't have liked that!"

Emmaline patted the journal affectionately. "Oh, it was all pretty complicated, dear girl. If you learn nothing by the end of this story, just know that neither one of your grandparents liked to do things the easy way."

"Well what happened when he left Paris? Did...did they leave Meg beneath the opera? And why was Raoul de Chagny being so nice to him? If I had been Grandfather, I would have punched him in the nose again," Gregory announced. "Why, I bet he wasn't even handsome. He sounded like a sissy to me."

"Me too," Cassandra chimed in.

"Read us more, Aunt Emmaline."

"Yes! Read the rest of it to us!"

With a crooked smile, Emmaline opened the journal, and prepared to relive the memories of pain, loneliness, and love. All the favorite subjects in any great opera.

#-#-#-#

Erik waited in the foyer of the de Chagny estate as Bernadette said goodbye to Meg one final time. While he lingered, he watched Patrice and Francois out on the lawn through the leaded panes of glass that framed the massive front door. As usual, Patrice appeared to be giving Francois a dressing down, and Francois, as usual was trying to placate her. Erik realized that he had grown somewhat fond of the interesting couple during the months of enforced proximity.

They were traveling only with necessities for now, but Francois had offered to return to France and retrieve the bulk of Bernadette's things after the bloodshed ceased. Armed with their own private carriage, bearing the de Chagny's coat of arms, no one would question them for long if they were stopped. Raoul had his own personal vendetta against the Communards, and would stop at nothing to find out exactly who had killed his parents. He had also written a letter stating that he would vouch for the ensemble using his vehicle.

Once they made it to the ocean, booking passage on a ship would be left up to them.

As Erik waited, another carriage rolled up to the end of the estate, also bearing the de Chagny's coat of arms. Erik watched from inside as a man in a dark green jacket and tan breeches descended, and stared up at the house, his expression one of shock.

If he was a relative, then he looked nothing like a de Chagny. He was completely bald, his face resembling that of a basset hound, and he could not have been more rotund if he had swallowed a pumpkin.

"You have company, de Chagny," Erik called out.

Raoul appeared instantly in the foyer, and glanced out the open front door. "That's my valet," he said, his tone growing excited as he loped down the stairs.

Erik crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the door, wondering why he was eager to see a servant. But Raoul did not embrace him, nor was his tone pleasant when he asked him, "Did you find her?"

"No, Sir," the man said, dropping his head. "But she may have returned to Berlin."

"What do you mean _may have_?"

The valet shook his head. "The old woman, she's feeble minded. I never could get anything straight out of her. Apparently Mademoiselle Daae visited her one afternoon, but by the time I found out, she had already gone."

Raoul cursed viciously, and then turned to find Erik half an inch away from his nose.

"He found her?"

"No, not quite," Raoul snapped. "He was supposed to stay in contact with Mamma Valerius."

"I did-"

"Obviously not!"

"Vicomte de Chagny," the man replied in a wheedling tone, "I tried. I honestly tried. She kept saying something about the mademoiselle being a famous singer, and that she had made new friends, and was going on to a new life. But..."

"But what?" Erik asked, stepping around Raoul.

The valet's eyes bulged as he stared at Erik's mask, but he answered. "She was apparently with two gentlemen. Two older gentlemen. It did not sound to me as if they were respectable."

"Why?"

"One of the servants described them as nancy boys, and Mamma Valerius said something about a man named Carlos fitting her with new clothes, more revealing clothes," the valet said, rushing through his description with a pained expression. "It sounded as if they were..."

Erik turned away, not wanting to hear more. Anger boiled to the surface, mainly at himself, but he knew how easily it would be transferred to someone else.

"Sounded as if what?" Raoul demanded. "Dammit man, tell us!"

"It sounded as if the mademoiselle had fallen in with the wrong crowd," the valet replied apologetically. "Certainly there was the incident in the hotel room, and now these fellows..."

"No," Erik said, whipping around. "No, I won't have you spreading lies about her. She would never do that. Not _ever_."

"I'm sorry, monsieur. These things befall young women every day. There is no reason she cannot be found...and saved."

_"She is not a prostitute!"_ Erik shouted, right into his face. "If you know what is good for you, old man, you will remove yourself from my presence. I am half a second away from taking your worthless life."

Raoul drew the man aside and spoke quietly to him a few moments, then he directed him back into the carriage. After it disappeared behind the house, he turned back to face Erik. "Pierre is a loyal servant. He would not lie about her."

"I will not believe that about Christine. I _refuse_ to believe it."

Recognizing a dangerous gleam in the masked man's eyes, Raoul decided not to press the issue.

"What are you going to do about it then?"

Erik's lips clamped tight, and he stared down at his feet a moment. "There is nothing I can do at present. Bernadette would never survive the heartache of searching for her. Already I fear..."

"She's very depressed," Raoul said quietly. "I think you are right. She would not survive the search, especially if..."

"Do not say it."

Raoul nodded once, disbelieving what he was hearing. Erik was giving up on Christine. This man he still regarded as a hated enemy had done things in the last two months that spoke of honor, and showed more emotion and love for those closest to him than Raoul had ever considered possible.

Christine, wherever she was, would be loved by Erik no matter what had happened to her. Of that Raoul was certain. Somewhere along the way he had stopped thinking of her as a fiancée, and it had nothing to do with her supposed fate. It had to do with the seeing how much Erik truly loved her, and knowing how strong of a connection she felt with her teacher.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, and one that would not go down quite so easily.

"I will find her," Raoul promised solemnly. "I will find her, and she will be safe with me."

Erik closed his eyes, and felt relief flood him. Safe. She would be safe. Happy.

The things most important to him for the person he loved so much. For Christine, he would do anything it seemed.

Even let her go - one last time.

"When you find her, tell her that I am sorry," Erik whispered.

By the end of the night Erik, Bernadette, Francois and Patrice were all in a carriage bound for the coast.

# - # - # - # - # - #

_It was weeks before we found a way out of France. Bernadette had remained stoic as we closed the door to Meg's tomb, but wept as each mile took her further away. Her daughter was at rest for the last time, but I knew that in her heart, Bernadette would never forgive herself for leaving Meg alone that fateful day. _

_I knew because I would never forgive myself. _

_I left Cesar with de Chagny, and as one of the few surviving horses in the city, he seemed very content to be alone in a paddock with half of its fences missing. My enemy and I parted ways, with an understanding between us that I never thought possible. He vowed to never stop searching for Christine, and I told him that I wished them all the world's happiness. _

_Something for me had changed with Meg's death. No longer did I wish to possess, to claim. I wanted true love or nothing at all. I wanted friendship, and above all, I wished to never lie to myself so well that I believed the things happening around me were real. I could no longer believe that Christine, wherever she was, would ever find in me a man that she could love. I wanted to find her, yes, to ensure her safety. But de Chagny seemed to think he had a lead on her, as Mamma Valerius had received a letter from the woman she had called a famous singer, but when the valet had glimpsed the name, it had not been Christine's._

_Bernadette stated that Mamma Valerius knew a great many singers, and that in her old age, she was probably confused. I was resigned to believe that de Chagny would find her, marry her, and make her forget any horrors that might have happened during the last year. The other option, well, I would not think of that. I would not imagine that I was leaving Christine in depraved circumstances. I could not think of that, for Bernadette seemed to grow worse during the ocean crossing. _

_More than once I could tell Bernadette thought of pitching herself over the ship, and often I left my own cabin and spent an evening at her side, providing a quiet comfort in her ever lasting grief. _

_And I knew as I watched the fading horizon of France that nothing held me to it any longer. _

_Part I - finis_

* * *

**When beginning Part II of this story, I wasn't entirely sure how to make the transition from 1871 to 1878, so I began it with journal entries that sort of give you a background for everything that has occurred for everyone. There also had to be a plot other than the love story, which is what this basically leads into, so when you come across the beginnings of my "master plan" just let me know if there is something that you don't understand. **

**If I can drag myself away from Mick St. John long enough, I endeavor to finish this story. I have about 2 or 3 chapters left to write, a wedding scene to change up a bit, and of course the wedding night. For those of you curious, there will be no love scene written until then. My faithful, wonderfully talented beta and I are going to go over things one final time and make sure it is absolutely perfect for you readers. **

**Thank rappleyea, please, for making this story everything that it is. I could _not_ have done it without her. **_  
_


	32. Part II: Enduring

_**Sorry for yanking this down awhile ago. I, the brilliant author, have somehow managed to get my chapters out of order. I do believe this is the correct one, but one word from my beta and it comes down again. **_

_**Leitmotif**_

_Part II – Enduring_

* * *

_Christine – Stockholm, Sweden – 1877_

_I have not wasted my life. I can look back and honestly say that nothing I have done brings regret save one or two things, and when I allow myself to be happy, then I am. Or rather, I am content with all that God has given me, and I dare not ask for more. _

_I have sung the highest notes in the finest operas, and have been blessed with admirers in Sweden and abroad. My singing career has carried me far, as I always hoped it would. No one would dare question the great diva Daina Christensen on her past; and no one has. The rest of my life has remained as private and secretive as my true identity. Only Juliette knows of my ties to Paris, and she has remained a faithful mentor and friend. We have seen each other through many personal dramas, some of them hers, some of them mine, and retain a curiously intimate relationship, considering we ought to be rivals._

_Admittedly her future would have no doubt remained the same had I not entered her life, but mine was undeniably changed. She taught me more than how to sing. She taught me how to be a woman, how to love _being_ a woman. Tragically through her own life, she also showed me why I should never trust a man. As purposeful as her career was, her romantic life remains an utter disaster. Juliette taught me the value of pride, and that I should never let a man strip it from me as casually as he might my clothes. I am admired, yes, but I have remained untouched. Men worship me, women want to be me. I even have, of all things, an ambitious little understudy._

_Ironically I am still lonely amidst this madness. _

_I would not admit it to anyone, but there is not a day that goes by that I do not think of my teacher. Oh, how foolish that might seem, given that I have relinquished the hold that childhood had over me for far too many years, but I cannot lie to myself and say that his memory does not affect me._

_If I did not think of him, I would not still wish for his voice. If I did not dream of him, I would sleep in peace at night. Eight years it has been since I have seen Erik, and there are days when I feel empty, remembering the way his voice once soared with mine. Even after singing the most popular operas of this century – nothing has compared to the night when Erik joined me on the stage. No other man has entered my heart like a shaft of heat and light, bringing me close to some forbidden secret of lovers, merely with song. I cannot think of music without thinking of Erik, and I cannot think of Erik without thinking of many other things I should probably not think of._

_When I traveled back to Paris over six years ago, my heart died. The utter destruction overwhelmed me so much that after seeing the ruins of the de Chagny estate, Madame Giry's house, and the Opera, I fled again. Juliette held me as I cried my heart out over the loss of my friends, and before I knew where I was going, we arrived in Lille - the place of Erik's birth, and where his parents still lived. _

_I shall never forget that horrid house, ripe with stench and lack of care, the walls sagging, and the roof quite open to the sky. And that was not even the worst of it! Outside there was a structure that was questionably called a barn, and pens surrounding it filled with starving animals. Some had already died. There were carcasses of swine and sheep, and the remains of a dairy cow was nearly buried under excrement and mud. Twelve hungry dogs regarded me with pleading eyes. And in the midst of grass that stood over three feet tall - was a young girl._

_Her name was Josephine, and I was pleased to discover that she was Erik's cousin. While she played with a broken – faced doll in the yard, I attempted to meet Erik's parents. _

_Marcel and Anne Marie Jeunet were quite possibly the most disgusting people I had ever had the misfortune to encounter. They spoke of their son as if he were a monster at birth, and laughed at how they had sent him to school on his first day with no preparation of what life would be like away from his home. In between beatings, they never laid a kind hand on him. They certainly did not love him, and when I asked if they wanted to know what had happened to their son, his father said that he hoped the Gypsies had ended his life._

_Before I left I found the composure to say what I felt, and God help me, in my furious outburst I stated that despite their apparent wish that Erik was never loved, he had been. Believing him gone forever, whether through death, or whether he had escaped Paris to some unknown region, I was at last able to admit that my feelings for him went deeper than I had ever known. I knew I would never see him again, and I was devastated._

_I purchased a little doll for Josephine in the village and brought it back to her. Looking on her sunlit face , I wished that I could have taken her with me, away from her guardians. Her mother, Marcel's sister, had died, and Erik's parents had allowed her to stay with them. I dared not steal her, but the neighbor who had shown me the way to their house was very kind. I left her my address and told her should Josephine ever need anything, that I was to be contacted immediately. _

_A year later Raoul found me in Stockholm, and I was so grateful to hear of Madame Giry's and Erik's escape that I wept in his arms. He gave me the news of Meg's death with measured calm. I went into such a depressive state that I did not eat for days. I mourned the loss of my dearest friend, and I was angry to learn how she had died. Nothing prepared me for the news of it, nor of seeing Raoul in such bitter pain when he told of how he had returned home after searching for me frantically to find his parents executed by their servants._

_He blamed me, to some significant degree. I could see in his eyes a well of resentment, a deep seated anger that he refused to put into words. Raoul saw me living in luxury, and I would not divulge my dark past in Germany. It was important that he see I was independent, successful, and strong. He hated opera now with a frightening vehemence, and I knew with certainty then that whatever tender feelings he once felt for me were gone. He left, and I was shaken, but by more than just the loss of his friendship._

_I was terrified to find out if Madame Giry blamed me for Meg's death as well. I begged Raoul not to divulge my whereabouts, and he did not even ask why. Looking back, I can see he thought I was terrified of Erik, and I would never have admitted to him that I had longed for my teacher all these years. I could not let him hate me more than he already did, nor could I face the uncertainty of losing Madame Giry forever. _

_By the time I had recovered from my grief though, it seemed silly to think that the mother of my heart would ever blame me. Still, I have delayed seeking out my past, mostly because I am terrified of what else I might find. _

_Now I am approaching my final performance. Yes, my final. Through a foolish mistake, I have lost a significant portion of my range, and with it, the ability to remain a consistent singer. After tonight my understudy will take over my position at the Royal Opera, and I will be left standing in the shadows once more. _

_I dedicate this performance to you, Erik, as I always have, wherever you may be._

_# - # - # - # - # - # - #  
_

_Stockholm - March, 1878_

It had been a year since Christine had felt the lights of the stage flickering at her feet. A year spent in turmoil, mourning the loss of her precious gift. She had made pilgrimages to Gothenburg then to Uppsala, recalling the days of her innocent youth with her father. She went to Berlin and faced the unhappy memories there and held Mamma Valerius as she cried, a sickly woman who could no longer leave her bed at all. Perros Guirec called to her, and she went.

Paris beckoned again, and Christine heeded its call, though with some trepidation. She even returned to Lille and met with Josephine, though she avoided Erik's parents.

Still, Christine could not shake the feeling of unhappiness in her life. At twenty five, she was a retired opera singer, and was floundering in uncertainty.

She would never worry about money again, that was not the issue. The thing that tugged at her insistently was the feeling that she had never had closure with her past. Paris and the memories of her life there were unshakable, and yet she put off contacting Raoul for any information he might have about Erik's and Madame Giry's new home.

Christine put it off until a day came when she could do so no longer.

# - # - # - # - # - #

"A letter has arrived for you, Mistress," her maid Greta said, as she handed Christine the slip of paper.

Christine opened it eagerly, thinking it would be from Juliette, who had gone to England for several weeks. When she read the contents, her brow knit in confusion until she finally glanced at the name.

"It's from Lille," she whispered to herself, and reread the note a second and third time.

_Mademoiselle. Daae,_

_You said that if a time ever came that Josephine needed you, that I should contact you immediately. This past month her guardians passed on, and the child was left defenseless in that decrepit house. I have taken her in for the time being, but I am a poor widow with no means to take proper care of her, and I know that my time will come soon as well. Josephine cannot read nor write, though I believe it is more a question of opportunity than of her intellect. She will not find employment in this village, at least not of the respectable sort. _

_There is another matter of great concern. The Jeunet's were tenant farmers, pitiful ones at that, and the owner of the property was never concerned with this measly farm - until now. I'm afraid he has made the suggestion that Josephine go to live with him to "serve" his household. The girl is quite simply a beauty. This interest cannot be healthy. _

_Please meet me in Antwerp on the twentieth of this month. I will have her there, waiting for you. I beg you to come with all due haste if you are to save this girl from a terrible fate._

"Pack my things, Greta," Christine said quietly, tucking the envelope into her secretary. "We are going to be traveling for quite some time."

# - # - # - # - # - # - #

The sound of breaking glass disrupted the Professor from examining his newest artifact, a statue he had discovered beneath the ruins of a Turkish city. As near as he could tell, it was some goddess left over from the pagan society of ancient times. Judging by the bulging stomach and generous breasts, the Professor thought it might have been used in fertility rituals.

Setting the statue on his workstation, he blinked at the darkness that greeted him. Had he forgotten to turn on the lights again? Drat, he was always doing that! He frowned at the candle before him that was burning low, and scooped it up, wondering where the nearest lantern might be.

He heard the sound again, and froze in his tracks.

"He isn't home," a woman whispered.

The Professor relaxed slightly, thinking it must be his housekeeper, then paused as more glass shattered. If it was his housekeeper, then she had better have a very good explanation for breaking his things.

Yet something warned him that this was not the case. The Professor had not traveled the world over without learning about man's greed. It was evident from the ruins of cities, from the thousands of skeletons that he had unearthed, that humans would stop at nothing to gain power, fame, money. And among the several items that the Professor was currently documenting, there was one that would go a long way toward satisfying the greed of most people.

Something extremely valuable indeed.

The Professor glanced to the safe along the wall where the mysterious gem was held. He'd found it in India, a rare blue diamond that was equaled only by one other - it's twin in fact. At least, that was the Professor's theory. Taken from the sculpted eye of Sita, it was the diamond believed lost to history. Her sister, the French Blue had been worn by King Louis XIV, then later, Marie Antionette. The French Blue was believed to be cursed, and yet remained among the world's most coveted stones. When the world discovered its mate had at last been found, well, it was his sincere hope that the stone would be out of his possession before that occurred.

"Look, he has a collection of Egyptian artifacts!"

"Quiet!" a man replied sternly. "We're only here for one thing. The diamond is worth a hundred times more than all other artifacts in this house."

The Professor backed away from the light in the room, hoping to remain concealed, but he could now see the glow of a lantern, and in this windowless room the thieves would have no trouble finding him.

* * *

A note about my mysterious gem. You've all heard of the Hope Diamond, a/k/a the French Blue, a/k/a (to a lesser extent) the Tavernier Blue. According to legend (or Wikipedia, lol), Jean-Baptiste Tavernier stole the diamond from the "sculpted eye of Sita" (yes, I blatantly stole that from Wiki), but theoretically there would have been two eyes, right? So whatever happened to the other "eye"? 

This is the rest of the Wiki entry: "According to legend, Tavernier stole the diamond from a Hindu statue. The diamond was one of the two eyes of the idol, and when the priests noticed it was missing, they placed a curse on whoever owned the diamond. One reason that this is not accepted is that the Hope's sister has not been found."

Please enjoy the new direction that this story takes. As I've previously said, it is almost like reading two completely different ones.


	33. The Temptress

_Erik - 1878  
_

_I was regarded with extreme suspicion during the ocean crossing, in fact even before we left the Bay of Biscay. A masked individual is not looked on favorably, and at the first grumblings of those on board the ship, Bernadette commanded - yes, commanded - that I remove my mask and replace it with bandages. _

_Bandages were more easily explained than the mask, and the purpose served me well until we had crossed the Atlantic. _

_Georgia though, was nothing like I expected. _

_So hot and humid I thought that drawing air would drown me. I cannot imagine a more miserable place other than hell, and it soon became apparent that if we were to stay in this ungodly climate, I would have to let go of my hatred of being seen. _

_I still wait for that to occur, and while I will never regard myself as normal, I can live now without the mask. And though I know that I will never change in some ways, I've struggled mightily to let go of blame and bitterness and to accept responsibility for my own life. I no longer resort to the ingrained tactics of manipulation and deception, after all what did they ever gain for me except the loss of the woman I loved more than my life?_

_Once we arrived from Paris, the thought of leaving again in search of someplace else to live was so upsetting to Bernadette that she lapsed into depression. So I have endured this tropical hell, and in truth, I have found the Americans entirely more accepting than the French with regards to my appearance. There are hundreds like me, though they were wounded by their own war. They think I have suffered some terrible tragedy, and I have not corrected them, for in some ways I have. Bernadette cannot take another upset in her life – I fear I may never again see the strong, confident woman I have grown to love as a sister. _

_I have no shortage of strong, confident women in my life though, as of course, Georgia was always Francois's and Patrice's destination. They were married in a quick ceremony near La Rochelle before we left France, and they have bought some land with a lovely Georgian house __on a bluff__ near the coast.__ For a man who thought to suffer the remainder of his years in solitude, I am pleased to call this reformed jewel thief and his opinionated and unconventional wife, my friends._

_And then of course there is my fiancee, Lesley Ann. Bride. Wife. God above, I never thought that I would have such a thing! _

_I cannot say that I am entirely without qualms. Bernadette has grown increasingly distant since she found out about us well over a year ago. She never had any idea what I had been doing with my nights. She certainly never suspected that I had a lady – bird, nor that my intentions might turn serious. I never thought myself that I would have had the courage to ask, but the proposal slipped out as naturally as I breathe, and in my next heartbeat, Lesley Ann had agreed. It wasn't something I had planned; I had not even purchased her ring. Until I asked, it wasn't even something I thought I would want. Lesley Ann, the epitome of Southern sweetness and charm, was the daughter of Judge Ernest Brunn. A society woman, no longer a girl, there were whispers of a tragedy during the war that had robbed her of the right to be respectably married. Union soldiers, a hated class of men in these parts, had occupied Savannah during the war. Southern sympathizers were castigated and brutalized, women ruined in ways not quite as degrading as the horrors I had witnessed in Paris, but which sounded just as devastating. Paris, the civilized city, had seen it's daughters raped in the streets. The still considered wilds of America, and the genteel city of Savannah had done it's raping indoors. The rumors, hard to quell, exist even now. The unprotected daughter of a judge, four union soldiers, and the loss of her only love._

_Rumors in this small town were constant, but Lesley Ann was only one of many women politely but firmly shunned. I had met her father, Judge Brunn, on several occasions and even met quiet, reserved Lesley Ann at least four times before. It seemed the ravages of war had addled the brains of even the most respectable men in Savannah, for Judge Brunn invited me personally to his home for dinner in May of 1875. The prejudices I had expected did not exist here in this vacuum of Southern hospitality. I was not the only one horribly disfigured here. Indeed I was odd, but here the society seemed an unlikely ally, where in Paris I would have been snubbed and mocked openly. _

_These Americans were merely awed by my foreign birth and mannerisms. To them I was an asset at their gatherings, a victory in their favor should I be so inclined to attend a garden party or a ball. Indeed that was where I met the parents of my best and brightest students. _

_I was not a monster to these people until I proved otherwise, a fact which I slowly accepted. I stretched my wings carefully in the midst of this culture, still shocked by the war. _

_Judge Brunn, for some unknown reason, found me to be a compelling person. Before our relationship soured, I gathered that he considered me something of a protege. One of the most respected men in town, a former Lieutenant Colonel in the Confederate army, and now a Judge, there were not many people in Savannah who did not like him. In time our mild affection would turn cool, and eventually would turn frigid, but in the summer of 1875 I found myself in his company a great deal. _

_His wife Abigail, Lesley Ann's mother, had left him well before the war. As I understood it she now lived in that metropolis of Boston, unattainable to the man who claimed to still love her. He divulged that sentiment during a night of drinking along with his bitterness over her alleged betrayal. I was no stranger to betrayal, so I listened to his ramblings more sympathetically than I might have otherwise. Apparently, the former Mrs. Brunn left him because she disagreed vehemently with the Judge's Southern politics and his stance in favor of owning slaves. The judge allowed her to leave him , but refused to give up his daughter._

_He became my patron of sorts, insisting that I continue to teach in Savannah, and encouraging everyone that he knew to bring their children to me. _

_Many people were resistant to this idea, most likely because I was a strange looking foreigner in their midst. _

_However, with Judge Brunn's support, the locals did accept me as much as they ever would. Even after living here for over thirty years I would be an outsider, but I did make a few friends in Savannah. Most of them untraditional, but I will reveal this later._

_Lesley Ann lived across town from her father, unheard of in that age for an unmarried woman to live alone, but after the war she had declined all help except for any financial assistance he wished to provide. She still visited him every day, though I noticed the conversations between them were strained. I wondered if he blamed her for the way in which her honor had been ruined, or if he was playing the role of a father, riddled with guilt for not being around to protect her._

_# - # - # - # - # _

_Savannah - 1876 _

One hot, August evening, Lesley Ann joined Erik and her father for dinner but the heat of the day had made all three of them far too hot to eat a rich meal. They retired instead to the front porch where the Judge and Lesley Ann ate watermelon, a Southern delicacy declined by Erik. He was appalled at the lack of manners they displayed in eating it, but had they served it in a dish, he might have tried it in a more traditional way.

The Judge retired for the evening after asking for Erik's promise to escort his daughter home, which Erik gave without a murmur of protest. Lesley Ann walked with Erik out to his gig and climbed in, a still silent woman but much calmer in his presence than she had been in the past.

"You don't have to take me all the way home, Mr...Monsieur...Jeunet," she said, stuttering over both the name and the title.

"I promised your father that I would," Erik replied quietly, nervously aware of her closeness on the bench seat. "Of course, if you prefer, I can..."

"This is fine," she cut in. Erik could feel her gaze on him but kept his eyes trained on the road, staring ahead at the street lamps that lit the path to her home. "I have been rude to you, haven't I?" She asked breaking into his reverie.

"No, Mademoiselle," he answered firmly, surprised by the question. No, had she been rude she would have thrown a screaming fit at the suggestion that he take her home, or simply stormed out the moment that she noticed his figure standing in the shadows of her father's library before dinner.

"I haven't really been very friendly to you when you've visited Father. I have been rude to you," Lesley Ann said quietly. "I apologize."

"It isn't necessary. You barely know me. You were right to not speak to me," Erik answered carefully.

Lesley Ann took a deep breath, her body tensing, and Erik realized he'd spun the conversation down a path he had not wanted to.

"Even an outsider is privy to rumors, I see," she said stiffly. "I know enough. I know that you haven't judged me. You don't know the truth, no one does, but you haven't judged me for the rumors I have allowed people to believe."

"Are they better than the truth?"

Lesley Ann laughed, a bitter sound that told him a great deal about how she perceived the town around her. She felt stifled in the community, accepted because of her father, rejected because of her past. With no real friends and no identity other than the small one she had carved out as a woman living independently, she was in a way exactly like him.

"Do you want the truth, Erik? The truth is, there were not four Union soldiers. There was only one, and he did not take anything from me that I was not willing to give," Lesley Ann said tightly. "I loved him, and he died. That is all that you need to know."

"I'm...sorry..."

"You are the only person in this town who would not judge me for loving a Union soldier. I have told you my greatest secret, and I believe that you will not tell anyone."

"Mademoiselle, I am the last person who would judge you for a dark past. If this town knew half of the things I've done in my life...," Erik let out a dry chuckle, "they would drive me out to the sea. I pay no attention to rumors. I've seen enough of war to realize that the memories are best left in the past."

"You were in a war?" she asked, her voice soft and trembling.

"The Paris Commune. It swept my city, a siege that lasted for months. It was not a gentleman's war, if there is such a thing. It was a group of men who terrorized us all, intent on murder and - other distasteful things."

Erik fully expected a comment on his scars then, a question of their origin, a touch of sympathy for what had been done to his face, as all of Savannah surely believed. Instead he nearly dropped the reins when he felt her small, warm hand cover his own. He pulled away and she did the same immediately, each mumbling an apology to the other.

"No it's...it's alright. It was unexpected," Erik said, his throat tight.

"Were you a composer in Paris?" Lesley Ann asked, changing the subject instantly, her sugary drawl appealing to Erik's ears. She drew the vowels out in a long, slow manner meant to entice a man into believing he could be safe in admitting anything to her. It was a kind, sweet voice that many of the women in the South used to disguise the vilest criticisms. Erik thought Lesley Ann seemed sincere however, but he chucked at her question.

"Composer? No. Never that," he answered. They were leaving the Judge's property now, and Erik could tell by the gaslights that lit the sidewalks that she was trying to determine if he had been condescending toward her. Lesley Ann had a very low guard, but there seemed to be absolutely no confidence in her words. One unkind thing said could wind her up for days, and she would become bitterly depressed. Erik frantically tried to think of something to add, hoping to assuage her mind. "I was a teacher there as well," he finally said, the lie coated with a little truth.

"Oh," was all she responded.

"But...I did live in an opera house."

"A real opera house?" Lesley Ann asked after a few moments.

"The very finest in Paris," Erik said carefully. Paris had several theaters, and depending on which Parisian you asked, the Comique could have been considered the very finest, or even the Chatelet. But no, the Populaire was and always would be the jewel of Paris in Erik's opinion. Even after he destroyed it and the Commune had used it for their nefarious deeds, it would remain a favorite.

"Why would a music teacher live in an opera house?"

Erik had not seen this coming, but he had an answer. "Everyone lived there - from the ballet girls and the ballet mistress to the musicians and performers. The opera house was nothing like the quaint little theater your community has here. It was twice the size of the Academy in New York."

"Oh," she responded again.

_'Brilliant, Erik'_, he thought to himself,_ 'you have rendered her speechless with your witty conversation skills.'_ He couldn't have known that it was not opera houses on her mind. He certainly would not have expected anything else from this very proper woman.

Erik and Lesley Ann remained silent a good deal of the journey to her home, though Erik inanely commented more on life in Paris, keeping everything general. There was no mention of masks, divas, or murder - all very normal, and very respectable. Had he known the errant thoughts running through this respectable woman's mind, he would have fled into the night sooner than he did. Oddly Erik felt comfortable in her presence, not expecting anything of her. Lesley Ann was a lady, and he treated her as such. He was not one to judge, and therefore did not.

The dark house that Lesley Ann lived in was nothing like her Father's elaborate plantation style manor. It was a simple two story, nondescript, and off the main road. Erik stepped out of the gig and offered Lesley Ann his hand, which she took, surprising him when she did not immediately step away. And when their bodies brushed accidentally in the darkness, it was Erik who stumbled backward toward the horse.

"Good evening, Miss Brunn," he said, muttering the words beneath his breath.

"Oh, could you please check the house?" she asked, her rushed voice stopping Erik in his tracks. "My father usually does this. He lights the lamps for me as well."

"Of course," Erik replied, unaware of any reason why he shouldn't offer assistance – other than certain death if she accused him of behaving inappropriately. "Please wait here, Miss Brunn."

Erik entered the house and lit the lamps in both the hallway and the parlor, finding a quaint, feminine house that smelled of cinnamon. He checked each downstairs room, hesitated, then climbed the stairs. After ensuring that no one had entered the home in her absence, he turned to the balustrade, shocked to find Lesley Ann climbing the stairs.

"Miss Brunn, I specifically asked you to remain outside," he uttered, shocked when she merely looked at him and smiled, closing the distance between them.

Erik wasn't sure what to expect with the hesitant, searching look in her eyes. Her sudden presence at the top of the stairs had thrown him off his guard.

"It was dark outside," Lesley Ann replied, as if it were the most simple explanation in the world, and warranted her right to be alone with a virtual stranger mere steps from her bedroom door.

Erik cleared his throat, backing away from her slightly. "Well, it appears you are safe from harm. I must be going..."

"Please wait a moment," Lesley Ann requested, blocking his path.

Erik could tell that he was not the only one surprised by her actions, but at that point the thought of intimacy had not really crossed his mind. He was confused, but with no experience at that sort of thing, Erik could not begin to imagine what it was she wanted with him. They'd shared no lingering glances, or whatever nonsense besotted fools did when they were lusting after one another. Lesley Ann would later confess to Erik that she had in fact been watching him from the moment they had met some eight months before. He had perceived any stares to be of curiosity or disdain – nothing more.

"What is it, Miss Brunn?" Erik asked with a thread of impatience in his tone. "I really must be going."

"Or you could stay," Lesley Ann blurted out, staring at his chest.

If Erik's eyes had gotten any wider, they would have fallen to the floor. He could only believe he'd misinterpreted her statement, wondering if she was inviting him only for a glass of sweet tea and some company, but when she stepped closer he realized that tea was not on her mind at all.

"Miss Brunn..."

"Lesley Ann," she corrected softly, her eyes flickering over his face, before rising on her toes and kissing his mouth, not wasting a moment to hesitate at his cheek or jaw. Lesley Ann kissed Erik softly, with her lips open slightly, learning the curve of his lip with her tongue. He captured her hands before they went around his neck, and held her body firmly away from his own.

Erik immediately lapsed into a series of rapid, panicked French reasons why he needed to be going, ordering Lesley Ann back downstairs. He stepped on her feet as he tried to move past her, clambering down the stairs and out the door into the safety of the night.

# - # - # - # - # - #

_Yes, I am ashamed to admit now that the former Phantom and a master of stealth clambered noisily down Miss Brunn's stairs in my haste to escape. Such was my inexperience with women and my deep seated distrust of their motives._

_Fortunately, Lesley Ann was more amused than offended by my sudden departure, intuiting as only a woman can that it stemmed from a failing in me rather than a rejection of her. I would not be so foolish or so cowardly the next time when her invitation was far too sweet to refuse again._


	34. A Society of Sugared Hate

_Savannah – March, 1878_

Erik gazed across the small theater, his eyes resting on the young woman wearing a striped blue and cream dress with a large, overly decorated hat upon her head. She accepted the bouquet ofgardenias from the old man who was always present on these sorts of occasions to provide flowers for a gentlemans' lady. Lesley bent her head for the briefest moment to inhale their heady fragrance, then cast her eyes around the room in search of her admirer.

Erik waited until her eyes were nearly upon him, then raised a hand in greeting. His bride to be immediately excused herself from her father and his circle of old friends, and strode purposefully through the crowds until she reached him.

"I should be giving you flowers," she said, smiling up at him. "I did think for a moment that Joshua was going to collapse on the stage. You would think the boy had never practiced a day in his life."

"He wouldn't have, if his father had any say in the matter," Erik grumbled. A few people nodded to him in greeting, and he returned the gesture. With dismay Erik saw that Lesley's father had broken away from his friends and was looking for his daughter. "Come outside with me. It's stifling in here."

He offered Lesley his arm and guided her out the door around the stage. Behind the Savannah Theater was a narrow stretch of woods which led to swampland, then to the river. Mosquitoes buzzed the air around them as they escaped the heat inside to a muggier heat that bore little breeze.

"Were you pleased with them?" Lesley asked, already knowing the answer.

"They could have done better," was Erik's ready reply.

"But they sounded very good, Erik," Lesley said, giving him a hard look. "You can't expect perfection with children."

"Joshua is fifteen, hardly a child."

Somehow Lesley managed to prevent rolling her eyes. In the two years that she had known him, Erik had never offered direct praise for his students. From what she could tell, his reward was to allow them to learn a new piece of music, which was the equivalent to Lesley of more work. And yet when he gave his students permission to try something they had been begging for, Erik was invariably regarded with an almost desperate look for approval. His students respected him. Most of them anyway. At least once a month he would stop his visits to her, his mood as black as the night sky, and she would hear from someone that another of that _eccentric _Frenchman's students had been removed from his classroom. Sometimes it was an irate parent, but more often than not it was Erik himself, tired of students not willing to work to refine their talents.

Lesley knew that he wanted her to deal with these issues once they were wed, that Erik wanted her to become something of a mediator between himself, student, and parent. She was still uncertain how she felt about that, but knew if it was important to him, then she would do it.

"Did Joshua not hit the correct notes?"

"He hit them well enough. The boy doesn't play with his heart. He analyzes the music until it bleeds with exhaustion. It doesn't sound as it should."

Lesley shook her head and gave him a silly smile. "I won't pretend to understand. I'll just agree with you, my dear, and hope that's good enough."

He smoothed a strand of hair away from her glistening cheek. "That's good enough," he murmured, then dropped a soft kiss on her forehead. "If you would like, I can try and show you again..."

"No no no," she replied, laughing. "We fought for nearly two months over that. I think we should let well enough alone. I am not musically inclined, and I freely admit to you that I am not. Don't try and change me, Erik. Unless you want to make some changes yourself...?"

"No," he agreed hastily, knowing full well what those changes involved.

Lesley expected him to make amends with her father, among numerous other people in the town of Savannah that he had alienated during the last eight years, something Erik would never submit himself to. Long ago he had tried to make the acquaintance of a select few citizens, and quickly discovered how unworthy they were of his time. Old hurts and old prejudices ran deep in the South.

"Then we shall get along very well, my dear," Lesley whispered, lifting her lips for a kiss. "You know I am not the sort of woman who will dote night and day, and accede to your every wish."

"And I am not the sort of man to beg for your father's approval."

Lesley frowned, wishing Erik did not always have to dig that barb in, but ignored it for now. "Will you be joining Papa and me for dinner tomorrow?"

"You know I have to work in the evenings, Lesley Ann. Bernadette knows this. That's why she-"

"Oh, alright. Forget I asked," she cut in, instantly irritated. "Please at least consider a night for next week."

He gave a precise incline of his head, remembering Bernadette's and Patrice's advice of when to compromise, no matter how much he did not want to. Their suggestions, along with Francois and his natural wisdom had helped Erik immensely in understanding this woman. In no way was he prepared to judge himself an expert, but gone were the shy, hesitant glances, and the gut churning nervousness. At least with Lesley anyway. She was headstrong, independently wealthy, and possessed a great deal of common sense despite her father and his narrow - mindedness.

Finally obliging her a kiss, he cast a quick glance to the back door of the theater before deepening it into something more.

"Can I visit tonight?" he asked, his voice turning husky.

"Oh, Erik," she whispered, stroking the back of his neck. "You know that we shouldn't. People are watching us more closely now that we're engaged. I don't want to risk my father finding out."

"Your father will be occupied tonight," he replied, sliding a hand across her back. "I'll walk to the back door. No one will ever know."

"My servants know," Lesley reminded him. "And I know Miss Chambers can see my back door from her bedroom window. She's already said something twice about you coming by. Why do you think I turned you away?"

For a moment something flashed in his eyes, but he looked away before she could identify it. Erik never accepted what he termed as _rejection_ well, andLesley never knew how to tell him that it was not rejection, it was _responsibility. _Always she reminded him that in a few months they would be wed, and no one could say a word about where he spent his nights - unless it was not in their bed.

Cupping the uneven ridges on his cheek, Lesley turned his face back to hers. "Won't you trust me? Haven't I always been fair to you?"

He no longer flinched at the contact, but nonetheless he removed her hand and placed it lower, at his neck. Attempting a carefree smile, he looked down at her. "Pardon me, Mademoiselle. I forget myself sometimes," he whispered, then turned her round against his chest.

Lesley's eyes closed, and a shiver raced up her spine as he breathed against her ear. "I love it when you call me Mademoiselle. It sounds so very French."

"I can speak fluent French," he reminded her solemnly. "I can speak many languages."

He allowed his breath to stir her sensitive skin, waited until he heard the little catch of her own, and smiled slowly to himself.

"At midnight, my sweet?" Erik asked hopefully.

Lesley groaned in surrender, knowing she ought to send him home alone just as punishment for tempting her. But she wouldn't. It had been three long weeks since Erik had paid her a visit, and six more months remained before the wedding.

"Six long months," she muttered to herself.

"Pardon?"

She turned in his arms, and kissed him deeply, passionately. "I'll be waiting for you," she whispered saucily, then raced to the back door of the theater, leaving him alone in the night.

# - # - # - # - #

Christine arrived in Antwerp at the Regal Hotel and asked the concierge to ring for the Jeunet's neighbor, Madame Rettele. It wasn't long before the old woman descendedthe ornate staircaseto the lobby, nearly dragging an adolescent girl behind her. Faced with Erik's little cousin, who was nearly her own height with long, unkempt nutmeg colored hair, and wide, fearful golden eyes, Christine knew she was going to need to find Erik and Madame Giry.

She was also going to need to find this girl new clothes, and a bath - quickly.

"Josephine, do you remember who I am?" Christine asked gently.

Madame Rettele let go of the girl's hand, and she immediately turned around and tried to run out the door. Josephine burst onto the crowded street, looking wildly around for escape when there was none, with Christine and the old widow on her heels.

"Josephine wait! I'm here to help you," Christine called, following her outside.

Everywhere the girl looked there was traffic, people staring. She felt like a wild thing, needing to escape, but with nowhere left to hide. Madame Rettele had tricked her into coming here, tricked her with the promise of seeing her real father, and now there was that fancy opera singer that her Aunt and Uncle Jeunet had hated so much.

"Josephine, do you remember me?" Christine asked again, touching a dirt stained shoulder. "I brought you a doll when you were just a little girl? I visited you again a couple of years ago."

"I know who you are," Josephine replied sharply. "I don't want to see you. I don't want your presents! I just want to go home."

"I'm...I'm sorry about your family..."

"I'm not."

Instead of the shocked expression that she expected, Christine Daae merely nodded. Josephine hated Christine for ever coming into her life, for ever bringing a beautiful, clean doll and reminding her that there was another life - a life of safety and freedom, of love and happiness. All those years ago Josephine had dreamed and hoped that the beautiful woman with the sweet voice would come back and take her away, that she would become her mother and never, ever let her guardians hurt her again.

"Josephine, you're safe now. I promise," Christine whispered softly. "I do promise you that."

Miserably the girl nodded, and followed them back into the hotel. "My father isn't coming, is he?"

"Your father?"

"It was the only way I could get her to come," Madame Rettele said apologetically. "I don't even know who her father is, nor does anyone else, I expect."

Christine stopped short and motioned for Greta. "That will be all, Madame. I thank you for traveling all this way and seeing to Josephine's needs, but I will be doing that from now on."

Without looking backward, Christine took the girl upstairs.

"Now the first order of business, Mademoiselle, is to make you presentable. Then we will purchase you enough dresses to fill a house, and then we are off to Paris."

"Paris?" Josephine asked uneasily. "Why Paris?"

Christine nodded approvingly as Greta entered the room holding up one of her own older gowns, then started a bath. Hoping she would not shock the girl more than necessary, Christine turned her around and began unfastening the dress that was bound only for the garbage.

"Did your guardians ever talk about their son?" Christine asked quietly.

Josephine tensed beneath Christine's hands. "Why?"

"Did they?"

"Not often," Josephine mumbled. "They said he was a monster."

"Josephine," Christine cut in quickly. "I know what they said about him. Don't believe a word of it."

"But they had pictures, and-"

"_Don't_ believe it. He is technically your cousin, and he is _not _a monster. His name is Erik-"

"I know what his name is," Josephine retorted. "And besides what they said, there were stories about him in the village when I was growing up." She pulled away from Christine and glared at her. "He's the reason I had fights with the other children every day. He's the reason _they_ hated me so much."

"No, Josephine. He's not. They were hateful people, and they hated everyone."

"Sois that what you're going to do - drop me off on his doorstep?" Josephine asked, her tone growing insolent. "Why didn't you just leave me in Lille? I want to meet my father! My real father!"

"I'm sorry. I don't know who he is. Or how to find him..."

"Then I want to go back to the farm!"

"Josephine, I'm trying to help you." Christine rubbed her temples for a moment, entirely uncertain how to deal with this child. She wished quite suddenly for Juliette, and hoped her mentor had received the letter she had written, pleading with her to meet in Paris. She had not expected Erik's little cousin to be so defensive, so angry. She had certainly not expected her to be so unprepared for the world. "Please, just go and get cleaned up. Greta will assist you."

"I don't want your help," Josephine replied, her tone cold and hard. "I'm old enough to take care of myself."

"Do you really want to end up on the streets?" Christine asked, losing her patience. "Do you have any idea what would happen to you out there? Trust me, child, the first time you had to beg for food, you would wish for someone's help. I know what it's like to be alone with nothing. I know what it's like to lose your family. And I know that your cousin will be very happy to meet you. I won't lie to you, Josephine. He can be difficult. But he will take excellent care of you - if I can find him."

"What do you mean by that?"

"After the war, he left the country. I know that he went to America, but not where."

"So now you're going to pack me off to America? Why should I have to listen to you? You are not my family, and they hated you anyway."

Christine could see in her eyes a plan to escape, and knew that if she did not watch her closely, she would be gone. The girl didn't trust anyone, that much was obvious.

Not that Christine could blame her, given her hard life, and all that she had gone through after the death of her guardians. Josephine was unapproachable, rude, and frankly she smelled. Only one of those things could be remedied immediately, however.

"Your cousin Erik is family," Christine replied softly. "And I know he would want to make sure you were safe."

The girl gave a snort of disbelief, but stomped back to the bathing chamber. A half second later Greta was pushed through the opening, and the doors shut with a violent slam.

"Well," Christine said, blowing out her frustration. "It looks like I have my hands full with that one."

"Yes," Greta agreed. "Will Madame Dvorak be joining you?"

"God I hope so," she muttered. "Otherwise I cannot see making it to America in one piece."

It was not merely the prospect of taking on the young Josephine that terrified her. It was also the meeting with Erik, and all the complications that that would bring into her life.

# - # - # - # - #

The murder of Professor Kimble rocked the community of archaeologists, antique dealers, and other artifact collectors on its heels. No one could understand or solve the brutal slaying, and the investigation by the police had turned up no leads.

Well, almost no leads.

An Inspector by the name of Julus Martin, a nephew by marriage to the late Professor, had begun making inquiries into his uncle's newer business acquaintances, and to be precise, into a dig that his uncle had just returned from in India. An earthquake in a small village had opened a tomb, and buried in an ancient crypt, there had been priceless artifacts. His uncle had met two archaeologists in Rome last year, and without telling his family of his plans, he had gone off on a treasure hunt.

Inspector Martin had tracked down the other two archaeologists, only to find that they too hadboth met with unfortunate ends, in much the same manner as his uncle. Both had been stabbed multiple times in the torso, and to ensure death, theirthroats had been slit.

If only Julus could find out what had been in his uncle's safe, and what had been missing from the other murder scenes, then he might have a clue where to look for the killers.

And if only Julus knew that they were right beneath his nose...

# - # - # - # - #

"What happens when we get to Paris?"

"When we get to Paris, I shall look up an old friend of mine, and I hope that he can provide me with an address for your cousin."

"Then we will go to America?" the girl asked, trailing behind the elegantly dressed woman with dark hair.

"Then we will go wherever your cousin _is_," the woman replied, and reached to pull a stuffed rabbit from the shelf. "Would you like to have this, Josephine?"

The girl gave it a scornful look, but did not argue as she tucked the rabbit beneath her arm. "When are we going to Paris?"

"In the morning -_ i__f_ we find everything we need today."

Paris? A woman dressed in mourning clothes touched her brother on the arm, and motioned for him to listen.

"Paris?" he whispered.

She nodded once.

"We just found a way out of our predicament, Constance," the man said softly, his eyes homing in on the girl with eyes the color of an autumn leaf.

They followed the boy carrying their parcels to the Regal Hotel. As the unknown woman and child continued shopping, Constance and Gordon placed an enormous blue diamond in a place they thought no one would ever look.

# - # - # - # - #

The smell of coffee woke Erik the next morning, but for several moments he did not move, choosing to remember how he had spent most of his night, wrapped in Lesley's arms. It had never been his intention to marry her, not at all, but by the end of the year he would be a married man. He would have a wife - not the wife he always expected - but a wife nonetheless.

But did he love her?

His feelings were muddled by memories of another girl, another love. Erik hesitated to call what he felt for Lesley love. She was lovely and smart, warm and funny, with intelligent hazel eyes and long dark blond hair. Lesley possessed a sturdy build, generous breasts, and was quite athletic. He could certainly ask for no more in a woman, could he?

So why did he now think of marriage as the end, instead of a beginning? Why, when Lesley would be an absolutely perfect bride, when she had agreed, and he had felt such utter peace?

Erik found himself questioning their suitability. Outside of the bedroom, they shared nothing in common. Lesley had absolutely no regard for music: no appreciation, no desire to hear him play, no desire to learn for herself. It was something that disappointed Erik a great deal. When he thought of the years to come, it filled him with a crushing sense of emptiness. Yet for nothing would he withdraw his offer.

He would be content with her. He would learn to love her, as he hoped she would grow to regard him with the same affection. Despite his good intentions, the closer his wedding day came, the stronger he felt a sense of doom.

Bernadette said that it was something all men felt when getting married, and some women too. Francois and Patrice confirmed it was 'cold feet'.

Erik knew in his heart that the cause of his unrest lay with something else, with some_one_ else.

Little did he know how soon his newfound happiness would be stretched to its limit.

# - # - # - # - #

By the time Erik made it down to breakfast, Bernadette had nearly given up, although he knew that she would wait all day if he dawdled long enough.

"You came in late last night," she commented, and when he merely looked at her, she said not another word about it.

"Has Viola been by this morning?"

Bernadette slid a plate of crepes in front of him. "Viola was here earlier, and said to tell you that if you want to give her lessons, you'll have to wake up the next time she pounds on your door."

"No one pounded on my door."

"Erik, she knocked several times. I knocked three times. If I hadn't known better, I would have sworn you were dead drunk."

He gave her another displeased look, but knew how useless it was to argue with her. Especially if he wanted to keep his late night activities out of the conversation. "If Viola wants lessons from me, then she can damn well come over when I say I'm available. I'm not a farmer. I don't need to rise at the crack of dawn."

"Well she _is_ a farmer, and if you want to give her lessons, because she certainly never asked for them, then you will adjust your schedule to suit hers. You cannot claim for her to be your best student, and then not make time for her, Erik."

Grumbling beneath his breath, he began to eat, and wondered if maybe Bernadette was right this time. Viola Johnson had a voice that did more than crack his heart, more than fill his soul. The girl, or woman rather, could do that to anyone. She had natural talent, and she felt music just the way a singer should, from her bones to her skin. She could be sweet, but was more often saucy, and when joined by a choir, nothing was more powerful than hearing her sing.

Viola was also a freedwoman, and so their lessons had to be conducted in secret.

It made Erik angry to see such a beautiful voice go to waste, furious to know what sort of life she had been dealt. Viola was roughly the same age as he was, and could not read a single note of music before their lessons had begun. She could not, in fact, read a single word. In the year since they had met, she had not garnered any interest in reading either.

But she came to hear him play, and she loved to sing more than anything.

It was not a question of intelligence, but one of self preservation. There was an ugly class of citizens in Savannah, a group of men who hated without reason, killed without warning, men who, in Erik's opinion, were ignorant and deserved the worst sort of punishment imaginable.

Butthese men wouldnever be punished. They were the parents ofErik's other students: the town doctor, the man who sold him livestock feed, the man who shoveled coal that heated homes across the city, the minister who occasionally stopped by with fresh bread and sweets for Bernadette.In short, they were men with power, holding on to a way of life that had ended with the war. Men like Lesley's father, Judge Brunn.


	35. The Phantom Returns

Hello all! This is two chapters. I'm very anxious for you to read Erik and Christine's first meeting, and am sorry that it took so many chapters to get here. (It isn't this one. We'll get there on Thursday's update). I'm glad you're all sticking with me on the story and that so many of you are enjoying it. I had great fun writing it and tossing ideas back and forth with my beta, rappleyea. We are both currently trying to overcome a _Moonlight_ addiction, and I fear it is going to be permanent for us both! _Fear_ (snort). I have one chapter (ONE!!!!) left of Leitmotif, and while I ponder my ending, I am going to indulge in "The Mick" for awhile. The next episode of _Moonlight _will be "Fever" which is one of my favorite episodes. Catch it on CBS on Friday nights after _Ghost Whisperer_. I'm trying to recruit as many people as I can so we can have Season 2 after the writer's strike has ended.

(Steps off promotion podium)

Enjoy the chapter(s)!

* * *

After buying half of Antwerp out of gifts for Josephine, Bernadette, and yes, even a few things for Erik, Christine felt overwhelmed. On the hotel manager's advice, she sent Greta along with everything except for what they would immediately need on to the shipyards at La Rochelle. Once they finished their business in Paris, they would go there to board the ship which would carry them across the ocean to America- if that was in fact where they were still going. 

They arrived in Paris four days later, each of them tired for their own reasons. Christine was exhausted after worrying that she would wake and find Josephine had vanished into the night, and Josephine was growing more nervous with each mile that brought her closer to the strange relative she had heard about while growing up. Despite the constant reassurances from Christine that her cousin was not depraved and that he would be very pleased to meet her, Josephine knew from experience that adults seldom liked to have children thrust upon them. She had heard often enough from Erik Jeunet's own parents what a horrible child he had been, and that he was most likely a murderer or worse, things Josephine did not want to think of.

Then from out of nowhere, came this woman named Juliette who laughed at everything. Josephine thought she was the most enchanting person that she had ever met, and when Juliette wrapped her thick, strong arms around her and patted her back, the girl felt for the first time in her life that things might be alright.

Christine knew that very feeling, and was glad that Josephine had so easily accepted the loving, albeit eccentric, older woman's attentions. While Josephine busied herself exploring the wonders of Juliette's many trunks, Juliette gaily waved Christine out of the hotel room to go in search of Raoul and whatever information he could impart.

It was the first time Christine had visited his estate since he had completed it. The last time she had come two years ago, it had not been finished. There had been gaping holes on the outside, scorch marks on the once pristine walls, and the interior had been completely ravaged. She knew he had gone through a terrible ordeal with finding those responsible for his parents' deaths, and Raoul had ruthlessly flushed them out of hiding.

When Christine knocked on the door to the large chateau, it was answered not by the stoic butler Raoul's parents had employed, but by a rotund Englishman. He beamed at her, and showed her right in, ushering her into Hyacinthe's old Blue Salon, which was now a peaceful cream color with gold accents. Once inside, Christine was startled to find that it was not Raoul himself who greeted her, but Raoul's very Italian _wife. _

"You are Christine." A petite, ebony haired woman greeted her with a warm smile. "I knew as soon as the carriage stopped in front of the house. Raoul isn't here this morning."

"Oh...I...,"Christine trailed off uncertainly, but the woman was moving toward her with surprising speed considering the seriously large stomach which announced she was very near to giving birth. "I should have sent a note. I am so sorry."

"Nonsense! You are more than welcome to come here!"

Bewildered, Christine allowed the woman to embrace her, and wondered if she had committed a social faux pas by meeting her ex fiance's wife, but the little woman was smiling at her, insisting that she sit down.

"I really shouldn't..."

"Well I want to sit, so you sit!" Christine sat, worried that the woman might go into labor if she did not do as she requested. "Now, I am Genovese. You are Christine. Raoul has told me everything about you."

"Oh?"

If it were possible, Genovese smiled wider. "Yes, yes. He tells me everything if I ask enough. I know all about you, and the opera, of course."

"Of course," Christine murmured, then studied Genovese a moment. "I apologize if I've intruded. I haven't spoken to...to your husband in well over a year. I had no idea that he had married."

Genovese rolled her eyes dramatically, but laughed. "He and I met two years ago, but married a little over six months ago."

Automatically Christine's eyes dropped to the ever increasing waist, and then away. Genovese was well over six months along if she was not mistaken. "I...well...congratulations then. I hope Raoul is happier now than the last time I saw him."

"He has his days," Genovese said lightly. "It has been difficult for him the last eight years since he lost his parents - since he lost you."

Christine cleared her throat uncomfortably, but did not attempt to disregard her feelings for her old friend. She still felt a tenderness for the boy she had known, and a great sadness for the man he had been forced to become, but could not say she regretted not marrying into his family. God knows what might have happened to her if she had stayed during the Commune. Christine shivered, thinking of Meg.

"I actually came here looking for some information," Christine finally said, not wanting to delve into that part of their connection. "Do you know when Raoul will return?"

"He should be in any time. What is it you need? Perhaps I can help," Genovese offered courteously.

Christine hesitated for a moment, and then asked for Madame Giry's address. "I don't know if he has it or not. But something urgent has come up, and I need to find her. I know...I know that Meg Giry is still buried here. I would also like to visit her grave if it is not too much trouble."

Genovese inclined her head. "Of course you may. You need not feel unwelcome here, Mademoiselle Daae. I know that my husband was very fond of you, and still is. But I also know that he loves me, and he is eager to be a father. I want him to be happy, to remember that not all of his past is so terrible." With kindness flickering in her dark eyes, she reached across and touched Christine's hand. "You are a part of his youth that does not hurt when he thinks of it, and I would never take that away from him just to be petty. I am not that sort of person."

"Raoul is lucky to have you," Christine said sincerely. "He deserves peace after everything."

"If you will wait here, I think he keeps his addresses in his desk."

Christine watched with a slight twinge of envy as Genovese left the room, still bearing an elegant grace despite the child she carried. There had not been much time during her career to think of family, and other than Roman Novotný and his terrifyingly large number of children, she had never considered having any of her own. She could not say that she felt especially maternal even now, or that she had any real desire to marry and raise a family. No man had ever intrigued her enough.

Except perhaps one...but she was no longer the timid child she had been.And Erik had not exactly intrigued her, but that was one train of thought she did not wish to travel on.

"Here it is! Bernadette Giry, Forty Seven Randolf Road, in Savannah, Georgia," Genovese announced, carrying a thick address book. "I know that he receives letters from her occasionally, always asking to put flowers out for her daughter, things like that. And asking for you, of course."

"Genovese? Reginald said that we had a gue..."

Christine turned to see Raoul poking his head through the door. His blue eyes grew wide as he stepped the rest of the way into the room. "Christine! I had no idea you were in Paris."

"I arrived today. Your wife was just giving me Madame Giry's address,"Christine said quickly, not wanting him to think ill of her. "I'm afraid something has come up, and I'll be needing to see her very soon."

Raoul frowned, but greeted her with a perfunctory kiss on her cheek. "Are you sure that is wise? You do know that..."

"I realize that Monsieur Jeunet will be with her, yes. He is actually who I will need to see," Christine murmured, feeling slightly uneasy.

"Is this about you losing your voice?"

Christinegrimaced inwardly, but met Raoul's gaze. "That news has already made it here? No, no it isn't. EvenErik could not repair what I have done. This is of a personal nature."

"I see." Raoul stepped away from Christine, and placed his arm around his wife's shoulders. "You know that we are still friends, Christine. I cannot say that I like the idea of you putting yourself at risk."

"Raoul," she replied, her tone one of warning. "I cannot say I like you poking your nose into my life. I am quite certain I can handle anything that comes my way -_e__ven_ Erik Jeunet."

Raoul's worried eyes met hers, and she knew if she did not leave, she would be bristling with annoyance, and the last thing she wanted was to distance herself further from him.

"I should like to pay my respects to Meg, and then I must be going."

"But you've just arrived! Where are your things! Surely you will stay and visit for a few days!" Genovese exclaimed.

"I really cannot. Perhaps on my way home I will travel through Paris."Christine glanced at the Comtesse's stomach, then gave Raoul a mischievous smile. "I daresay I will be here to meet your new son or daughter by that time."

"Son," Raoul muttered. "Definitely a son."

Christine did not miss the lingering glance between husband and wife, nor the affection they shared in the simple kiss he bestowed upon her brow. Emotion choked her, and she briefly wondered if she could have been as happy as his wife.

Giving herself a shake later as she walked out the door into the night, she remembered the other time she had done the same thing - the fateful night when she had turned her back on a life of privilege, comfort, and safety.

No. She had no regrets where the de Chagny's were concerned.

Her regrets lay with another man. The man who, if things turned out like they should, she would be face to face with in a matter of weeks.

- - - - - - -

"Bernadette! Bernadette!"

Bernadette

glanced at the closed kitchen door and rolled her eyes. "If you want to talk to me, come find me," she muttered to herself, continuing to clean the stove.

She could easily hear Erik stomping around in the music room, and then the vicious slam of several doors as he continued to bellow her name.

"Berna-" Erik cut himself off abruptly when he found her on her hands and knees with her head inside the oven. "What are you doing?"

"I'm-"

"And why didn't you answer me? Didn't you hear me calling?"

She pulled herself quickly out of the oven and whacked the top of her head on the iron grate. "Ow, dammit! Yes, I heard you, but as you can see, I'm busy."

"Where is my music book?"

"I haven't seen it, Erik. Now unless you want to finish cleaning this oven, then let me be," Bernadette replied, rubbing the top of her skull.

Erik's mouth opened, then shut when she pointed the scouring brush at him.

"You lose that thing once a month, and it's always exactly where you left it," Bernadette scolded him.

"If I knew where I left it, I wouldn't be asking you!"

Bernadette cackled, and continued to clean.

"We have a maid, you know. You don't have to clean that yourself, you're getting ol...ah...all dirty - getting all dirty doing that."

Bernadette sat back on her heels, and gave Erik a level look. "I know what you were going to say. And I'm not _that_ old, thank you very much. Besides," she waved the brush again. "You can't have that much music left in that old book. You lose a piece every time a student takes it home to study, and you're too lazy to make copies."

"I'm not _lazy_, I'm busy. And the students are to make their own copies, but they never get them right. It's easier to give them the original!"

"Then you need more originals! Why am I arguing with you? I don't know where it is. I'm hot, I'm tired, and I've still got to cook your blasted supper this evening, which you won't even eat, and then I will spend half my night worrying when you don't come in."

"I...um...would you like to go see Francois and Patrice then?"

Bernadette's face immediately brightened, and she ignored the fact that Erik was bribing her. "You'll take me?"

"Don't I always?" he replied, hoping to calm her. "If they moved any further away from Savannah, we would have to stay overnight."

Bernadette gave him a shining, vulnerable smile, and he repressed a groan. Since Meg had died, she had changed so much. He'd half expected her to become hard and bitter, but she was a fragile, emotional woman who cried often and sometimes for days at a time. Any little thing could set her off: one of their many arguments, the sight of a young girl with long blond hair, any child who was still crawling, certain music, and certain days. Seeing Patrice often made her feel better, and if Erik was guessing correctly, Bernadette was on her way to a depressive mood.

Francois and Patrice had stayed with them for a while after arriving in Savannah, until Francois found and purchased a little house near the coast for his wife. In the last six years that little house had been added on to no less than three times to make room for his very rambunctious progeny; all girls.

"I'll pack us a bag," Bernadette said, cheerfully tossing the stiff brush into the oven. "I can finish this when we get back."

Erik gave her a tight smile, but relented, already wondering if Francois had any good wine.

# - # - # - # - # - #

_May - Savannah 1878_

_As soon as I descended from the ship, I could tell I would be spending a miserable summer here. It was so hot that I began to sweat before the sun was high overhead, and my hair, which I work so hard to keep tame, turned into such a frizzled mass that I seriously thought of cutting it off. I did fear for Juliette's health, as she had gained a significant amount of weight since Alberto died some four years ago, but I found a hotel room with large open windows that caught a little breeze in the late afternoon air._

_Josephine had grown quieter and quieter with each mile that brought us closer to America, until she nearly stopped speaking altogether. Juliette told me the truth about her - such a horrible truth - one Josephine would not share with me. To ease the girl's mind, I promised that I would meet with her cousin Erik before I forced it upon her, and that I would also include Madame Giry._

_Juliette, bless her, told the girl that if she did not want to stay with them, why, she would just come live with us. It is one promise I do not know if I can keep. What would I do with an adolescent girl, especially one who does not trust me? _

_Savannah! It was a charming little town, although nothing like what I had seen before. I could easily see my Erik among the great cypress trees with what the locals called 'witches hair' hanging from the branches. I rested a day or so to recover from the journey, made a few inquiries into the location of Randolf Road, and garnered the courage to face my past._

# - # - # - # - # - #

Erik checked his reflection in the mirror before joining Bernadette for breakfast. It was the only time of day that they spent together, and it had become a tradition he knew to keep, if he wanted to live peacefully. She allowed him to miss dinner, although she still complained, and if he did not stop to see her again for the rest of the morning and afternoon, she would never let him hear the end of it. But at breakfast he was there faithfully every morning, knowing how important it was to her.

Bernadette had so little left. Francois had taken her back to Paris once, and she had returned so distraught that she swore she would never go again. She could not abide theater anymore. The sight of dancers tore her apart, especially ballet. She had never had anything else in her life that interested her other than dance, and her family.

Surveying his appearance once last time, Erik no longer scowled back at the man in the mirror. Lesley had accepted him. Bernadette always had. Although he was still uncomfortable unmasked, he had learned to harden his skin to stares, whispers, and the barbed comments that were easily heard. In this heat he could not have worn a mask in any case.

When he made it downstairs, Bernadette sat staring vacantly at the table with a fork poised in mid air. Judging by her expression, Erik knew that today was going to be _one of those __days_

"Do you realize," she asked almost absently, "that in four months, we will no longer be doing this each morning?"

"Doing what?" he inquired, taking his seat across from her.

"Living together. Eating together." She laid her fork back down, and he realized she did not even have food on her plate. "You'll be married by then. Your new bride will be cooking all your meals."

"Lesley doesn't cook. I'll still be here," Erik said reassuringly. "And I've asked you to come live with us. You always change the subject."

Bernadette made a face. "I cannot live with you and your new bride. It would be too intrusive."

He reached across the table and covered her hand, worried golden eyes taking in every new wrinkle and gray hair that had surfaced over the years. "It's what I want."

"You know I love this old house," she replied with a little sniff. "Besides, what you want is not necessarily what your new bride will want."

"She has a name, Bernadette."

Instantly irritated, Bernadette took her hand from his grasp. "Well how should I know? You won't even introduce me to her!"

"I've _tried._ You always make excuses as to why you cannot meet her."

Bernadette's mouth fell open in outrage, but a knock at the door stopped the retort that rose to her tongue. She pushed out of her chair and stalked from the room. Erik stabbed an egg viciously then put it on his plate. He was about to take a bite when a voice from the past floated out of the entryway, and nearly caused his heart to fail.

"Oh, Madame Giry...oh, I missed you. I missed you," a woman sobbed.

_Christine?_

Without realizing it, he was halfway across the room, listening to the nonsensical chatter from both of them - laughter and tears, words of love and pleas of forgiveness. Slowly he moved forward, seeing the door flung wide open, and the back of a woman's head. Puzzled, he stared.

Straight brown hair, not the wild curls he remembered and a dress so elegant and detailed, for a moment he wondered if he had been mistaken.

"I'm so sorry," Bernadette whispered, clinging frantically to their guest. Bernadette was shaking violently, that much Erik could see. Each of them were, and he could hear that _voice_ again, providing comfort in such sweet, loving tones.

"What happened to you? Where were you? My God, do you know how worried I have been? And look at you!" Bernadette pulled away, and for a moment her eyes met his over Christine's shoulder.

Slowly he shook his head, closing his eyes as if to discard the cobwebs of his mind. She was there, within three feet. He could touch her, see her. She was _there._

"I heard about Meg. Raoul told me," Christine said, going back into her arms. "I'm so sorry, so sorry. I miss her so much."

"Christine...we...I thought...oh it doesn't matter. How did you know where to find us?"

Christine stilled for a moment, and took a deep breath, unaware of the eyes that burned with emotion behind her. "Raoul's wife gave me the address."

"His...his_ wife_?"

"Yes," Christine laughed. "He never told me he had gotten married. She's expecting soon too."

At last he regained a semblance of control, and had the foresight to turn back out of the entryway and take the servants' stairs in the kitchen. His mind was buzzing with so many thoughts, so many feelings, he was unaware of when he started to stare into the mirror - the same one he had looked into only an hour earlier and decided he was satisfied with his appearance.

He looked now, and everything from the past came back with stunning force: _Christine_ the opera, her lover, and worse, his own breakdown and pain. Through all the years that had passed, he had wanted to see her, wanted to tell her again that he loved her, wanted to beg for forgiveness. He had wanted to hear her voice again, see into her eyes, touch her hand. Ever since leaving Paris he had known that his heart would never be settled until he could say goodbye to Christine Daae once and for all.

And yet now as he stared into the mirror, he felt something else rising up from within - something dark and dangerous, shameful. Opening a drawer at the bottom of his bureau, he found what he was looking for - the white mask, the thing that would hide him from her again. When he looked in the mirror again, no more was the uncaring, unfeeling man who had worn his scars for all the world to see the last few years.

It was the Phantom of the Opera.

# - # - # - # - # - # - #

_I'll never quite understand why the first thing that I did upon seeing Christine was to hide my face. She had told me herself that my scars did not matter, that it was the person inside of me which frightened her. The person who deceived her. The man who led her astray for so many years, who lied and stole and murdered. It was not merely the scars which I hid now._

_I was trying to hide the darkest part of my past. The secret shame of what I had done to her, and how she had repaid me. It was more than ugliness. More than beauty. I felt ill to my core, reminded so quickly and suddenly of my horrendous deeds. I feared that my new life was over, that the security I had found in Savannah would vanish abruptly and I would be left with nothing. I pictured Christine telling Lesley of how I had tricked her, and my new fiancée casting me back out to sea. I thought that I might see Christine's face again, go mad, and lose myself again in my own darkness. _

_I was terrified most of all that I might love her still._

_# - # - # - # - # - # - # - # _

Madame Giry ushered Christine into a quaint little room with a replica of the house painted on one wall - a two story white house, set against a backdrop of those same giant Cypress trees with Spanish Moss hanging from every limb. Azalea bushes were in bloom, and on the lawn grazed two matching bays.

"This is such a beautiful home. It looks very old," Christine said, looking around in awe. "And so big." She turned back to look at Madame Giry to find her staring, still looking quite shocked. "Madame?"

"Bernadette, please. After all these years, you may just call me Bernadette."

"Bernadette," Christine repeated with a smile. "It seems strange, but I will try."

"Are you here alone?"

Christine glanced away, pursing her lips. She had decided not to reveal Josephine's existence to anyone except Erik, but she did not think it appropriate to suddenly rush into demanding his whereabouts. "I traveled with some friends," she finally replied. "Juliette Dvorak? She's feeling very poorly in this heat."

"Dvorak? I know that name..."

"She was a very popular singer quite some years ago."

Bernadette shrugged. "My memory is not what it used to be. Tell me, my dear, have you ever married?"

"Oh, no. No," she laughed, somewhat surprised by the question. "I've been asked a score of times, but no."

"Did you...," Bernadette broke off, tracing a finger over the brocade patterned couch, "did you visit the de Chagny mausoleum?"

Christine moved closer and wrapped an arm around Bernadette's narrow shoulders. "Yes," she replied in a soft whisper. "Raoul keeps lovely flowers there. I've been three times now. I wish I could visit more often. Mad...Bernadette, I'm so sorry about her. She was...is like a sister to me. I lo-loved Meg, so very much."

Bernadette swallowed hard, and began to blink rapidly. Her eyes moved quickly across the room, as if in search of something to take her mind away from her daughter's memory. "I...ah...I should get some tea for us, something to cool us down."

"Tea...to cool?"

Bernadette smiled at Christine's quizzical expression. "They drink it cold here. If you spend an August in Georgia, you will see why." She patted her hand. "I will be back shortly."

Bernadette left the room, her heart flooded with uneasiness when she found Erik's chair empty, and no trace of him in the house. Oh, he would not be pleased with this. He hated surprises, and he would especially not be pleased now, just before his wedding. When she returned to the sitting room, Christine Daae, who little resembled the girl who had left Paris, was walking a slow circle around the room, as if taking in their new life with picture images of furniture and decorative items.

"Is Erik living here with you?" she asked quietly.

The tray rattled in her hands as Bernadette set it on a table. Smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt, she met Christine's eyes.

"Yes. He is."

"I thought as much," Christine replied with relief, then stopped before her. "I need to speak with him very soon. Would you tell him that for me?"

"I...I suppose that I can. May I ask why?"

Christine's eyes flickered away for a moment, then she shook her head. "Just tell him...tell him I am not here to hurt him. I need to speak with him as soon as possible. Can you do that?"

"Christine, Erik has changed a great deal. You would hardly recognize him."

"Oh?" Wide, curious eyes drifted away. "I suppose I have changed as well. I hope both of us have grown wiser than in the past. I'm not here to bring that part of our lives up."

That would be best, Bernadette thought to herself.

But she did not say a word about Erik's wedding. Let the man do it for himself. It would be interesting to see the reaction on Christine's face.

* * *

I named this chapter after a published Fanfiction story by Stefanie Cole. It was really, really good, and you can buy **_"The Phantom Returns"_** on Amazon. It's worth it!

PS: For some reason my words keep getting squished together. I assure you that I am doing everything to stop the site from doing it, and I don't leave them like that, it just keeps happening and I'm not sure why.


	36. Heart to Heart

I'm so sorry, I thought this was the chapter that reunited them, but it was the next one. And to clear up the misconception...there was only one chapter left for me to _write. _The story is finished! You don't have to worry about me abandoning you! It has about fifteen or so chapters to be edited by rappleyea, but I'm done! There will be around 70-75 chapters for the story total, depending on how many I combine. I don't mind combining chapters, but it gets a little confusing for me when posting. I'll go ahead and include the next chapter here since I know you are on the edge of your seat for the reunion.

* * *

In a daze, Erik walked out the back door and down to the slew that ran behind the house. Sometimes he came out here in the evenings to the boathouse that he had built to escape from Bernadette's constant nagging. Beneath the shade trees and with the water coming up beneath the floor, it was cooler than anywhere else on the property, and no one ever ventured down here to bother him. 

Never say never, he thought as he watched Bernadette through the dust covered windows, slowly crossing the lawn and entering his hideaway cautiously.

"You saw her?" Bernadette asked, her voice a mere whisper. Her face was still quite pale, but Erik could tell how excited and relieved she was by the tremulous expression on her face.

In three steps she was across the room, falling apart as he wrapped his arms around her. For a moment he feared he might do the same, but he closed his eyes and pushed away the feeling of undeniable terror that swamped him.

"I did," he murmured.

"Oh, God, Erik. Please tell me that it's real. I just can't believe she's here after all this time..."

"Where is she now?"

"I...ah...she said something about needing to return to her hotel room. She has someone with her. A woman named Juliette Dvorak."

Erik stepped backward once to look at her. "The opera singer?"

"Christine said something about her being a singer," Bernadette replied.

Erik scoffed. "Twenty years ago, maybe. She's also been involved in more scandalous affairs than any other singer in history."

"It doesn't matter. I'm just so happy that Christine's alive. That she's here."

Erik turned, staring down into the green water that ran beneath the dock. "I wish that I could say the same, about her being here, I mean."

Bernadette pressed her hand over her mouth, at once torn. She also noticed for the first time that Erik was wearing the mask - the mask, which had been absent since they had gotten on the ship bound for America, the mask that she had wondered if it had been tossed into the ocean, the mask that she was now seeing again.

"Erik..."

Bernadette moved to stand before him, her hand reaching for the leather covering on his face. His eyes dropped away as she removed it, but he took it from her immediately.

"You don't need this. _Please_ don't do this to yourself again," Bernadette implored him.

When he looked back at her, there was such a void in his eyes that her heart broke for him.

"I don't want to see her." Erik said, the anguish that he felt evident beneath his words.

"She wants to see you," Bernadette said softly. "She says she has something important to tell you."

"Such as?" he asked tersely.

"Christine wouldn't say, just that she isn't here to hurt you, but it's very important that she see you soon."

Erik closed his eyes a moment, remembering not the last time they had seen each other, but the time before that. Telling himself that he wanted something when it did not seem that he would ever attain it was one thing, but now that Christine was here, the thought of encountering her was not something he felt comfortable with.

"No. Tell her I am not interested."

"Erik, surely you can see her now. You're about to be married. Don't you think that you should put this behind you now? I think that's what she wants too," Bernadette said, touching his arm. "She isn't the same girl. And you aren't the same man. You certainly don't need this..."

She reached for the mask again, but he pulled away. "I don't want to see her. Tell her to go back to wherever she's been," he returned angrily. "Tell her to go back to de Chagny."

"Raoul is married."

"Oh, yes. I heard," Erik laughed dryly. "And she has been his mistress all these years, I'm sure."

"Erik, don't be unreasonable. Would you at least consider..."

"No. No, I want nothing to do with her."

Before Bernadette could protest Erik had slammed out the door, leaving her with a feeling of dread. The two of them had ripped each other apart the last time they had been together.

Which begged the question: who would be left standing this time?

* * *

Christine visited Bernadette every day for the next three days, and listened to her stories of their life here in America. Bernadette told her about Francois and Patrice, about the society here with a seemingly soft center and rigid edges. Bernadette told her that Erik had been teaching for the last six years and that he put together a small concerto at the end of each semester, as well as solo performances that his students worked very hard to achieve. It became obvious after the fourth day that Erik was avoiding her, and Christine felt half annoyed and half relieved that he was just as nervous to see her as she was to see him. 

But when she asked Bernadette if the message had been relayed, Bernadette said that it had, but then she admitted that Erik, in fact, did not want to see her at all.

Feeling stung, Christine returned to the hotel she shared with Juliette. It had crossed her mind that Erik might still hate her for what she had done, but she hoped that after the last time they had spoken that he had forgiven her.

"That's a man for you," Juliette said, fanning herself rapidly. "And they say women are the ones who hold grudges."

"I don't know what to do," Christine moaned.

"Well, he's going to have to put aside his feelings for you, to meet his cousin. And you're going to have to be sensible, and run roughshod over him if he keeps avoiding you. A man like that just needs a little push, is all," Juliette advised.

"I don't think this particular man likes being pushed. I remember him as being quite intimidating."

Juliette gave her a long, assessing look. "Are you afraid of him? Afraid that he will try to force his love on you again?"

"I'm not afraid of him." How could she be, after reading his journal so many times, after seeing him broken and alone? Did she think he might stalk her again? Attempt to bend her to his will? She wasn't afraid of him doing it, for if he did, she would have the good sense to show him she now had a will of her own.

"Well something must be done. That girl is going stir crazy in here, not that I can blame her," Juliette interrupted Christine's thoughts of Erik.

"Where _is _Josephine?"

"Oh, she ran out the door earlier, saying something about getting some candy for us both."

"Juliette!" Christine groaned, and yanked her hat from the bed. "We've discussed this. Josephine cannot go wandering off alone in a strange city, especially when she cannot speak English, nor read the signs back to the hotel."

Christine raced out of the room, asking the hotel clerk if he had seen her guest. He pointed Christine in the right direction, and she rushed out onto the boardwalk, her eyes scanning the streets. It was almost supper time, so there weren't many people about, but it wasn't long before she heard shouts, and violent French curses in the midst of a crowd of children.

"Snobby little brat!"

"Yeah! What is it, you're too good to play with us?"

"Look at her dress, Mary. I bet it cost more than what Pa makes at the mill in a whole year!"

"Josephine!" Christine called to her charge.

Christine caught sight of angry golden eyes, just as Josephine drew her fist back, sailing it right into the eye of one of the girls who was taunting her.

"Josephine, no!"

Christine rushed across the street in time to see her aim for another girl, in a group of about six or seven. The second girl went down, screaming as if she had just received a deadly blow.

"Leave me alone! I just want to be left alone!" Josephine yelled in French.

The other children, not understanding, just stared.

Christine reached them at the same time as another woman. She yanked the two girls off the ground and glared at Christine, then at Josephine.

"You should take her home right now and give her the belt!" the woman said sharply, then marched the crying girls down the street, shaking their arms.

"Josephine, come with me. Now," Christine said, grabbing her hand.

"No! I hate it here!" Josephine shouted. "He doesn't want to meet me, so just let me go home!"

"Josephine..."

"You have no right to tell me what to do! You didn't want me either! You left me there with them! With them!"

Christine turned to look at her. "With whom? With the Jeunets?"

Her eyes filling with tears, the girl nodded miserably. "I...I thought..."

"Oh, Josephine. I wanted to take you. I did," Christine whispered, gathering Josephine in her arms. "I had no right. I'm not your family. I'm so sorry."

"I wanted you to be," Josephine cried, her shoulders shaking. "I hated them. I hate _him_. I don't want to see him. Please, please don't leave me with him, Christine. He'll hurt me, I know it. He will..."

"No. He would never do that, Josephine. I promise."

Christine looked over her shoulder, and frowned at the children who were still staring at them.

"Shoo! Go home," she said sharply. "Off with you!"

Josephine wiped her eyes and pulled away, sniffling. "Get out of here before I hit the rest of you!"

"Josephine, they don't speak French. They don't understand what you're saying."

"They were being mean to me," she replied, glaring at them all.

"Come then. Let's go find Juliette," Christine murmured.

They both turned, then froze.

Standing right behind them was Erik, and in no way did he look pleased to see either of them.

* * *

"Did you find out which hotel they are staying in?" Gordon asked, rising from the settee. 

Constance glared out at the Paris skyline. "No. I can't believe you lost that diamond. You were supposed to get the girl's rabbit before they made it here, and now they've apparently disappeared into Paris."

"If you had done your homework a little better, that professor would still be alive," he retorted. "You said the house was empty!"

"I watched it for two days," Constance said, glaring daggers at him. "He should have been in London. No one entered the house except for the housekeeper. How was I to know he delayed his trip?"

"It was agreed that as a woman, you would be less suspect to enter a house. You could have gone in and asked for a damned cup of coffee! Anything! Then we wouldn't have people checking our papers every time we turn around. I'm already wanted. I have to keep my name clear. You know that."

"We didn't have to kill the other two either. Those were your mistakes, and yet you keep harping on this one just because it was mine!"

Gordon glared at her, but said nothing.

"Well, we need to find their hotel room. They have to be staying somewhere in the city. What did you say her name was?"

"She's listed under Daina Christensen, and the older woman's name is Juliette Dvorak."

"Dvorak. Christensen." Constance's brows knit. "Aren't those opera singers?"

"How the hell should I know?"

Constance sent him a disgruntled look, and barely resisted calling him an uncultured pig. "Well if they are, then they shouldn't be so hard to find. Christensen is widely popular. She retired last year. Dvorak is an old whore."

"Now that's the pot calling the kettle black," he muttered beneath his breath.

"Care to repeat that, my dear brother?" she asked icily.

Wisely he didn't. "Get out there and find them," Gordon ordered. "And when you do, be sure and put a bullet in them for causing me all this trouble!"

For once, Constance agreed with her younger sibling.

* * *

Erik glanced from one to the other, taking in Christine's shocked expression, and then that of the pale faced young girl who was clinging to her. 

_With golden eyes just like his own..._

He was also vastly aware of the growing crowd of people, and when he glanced to their faces, he saw that Lesley's father was among them.

"Come with me," he snapped in French, and turned away, leaving them to follow doggedly in his footsteps.

Christine tugged Josephine roughly by the arm, but once they were a distance away from everyone the girl dug in her heels.

"I'm going back to the hotel. Leave me alone, both of you!"

"Jos-"

Josephine gave an inhuman screech, then jerked herself free. "I said I don't want to go with him, and you can't make me. You lied to me!"

Christine watched, disappointed as she fled down the street. Josephine did not stop this time until she reached the hotel and stormed through it, nearly knocking over the doorman.

"Quite a spectacle you two made today." Erik's terse comment broke into Christine's thoughts.

She turned to face him, her eyes roaming over his face, then his loose fitting clothes. He was standing with his hands on his hips, not looking, a thunderous glare on his face.

"I..."

"Would you care to explain?" he inquired, his tone unforgiving and hard. "Is she your... daughter?"

"My _what_? No! Josephine is fourteen. I'm not _that _old."

"Then who is she, Christine? And why does she have eyes like mine?"

Christine blinked at him, wondering how on earth he had jumped from her daughter to his own. "She's your cousin," she said bluntly. "And if you had agreed to meet with me, then I wouldn't have been forced to keep her in a hotel room where she's been bored to death."

Erik opened his mouth, then promptly shut it again. "I don't have a cousin," he finally blurted out. "And how would you know it if I did?"

Christine glanced away, realizing they were in some sort of open courtyard with flowers spread all around them. How to tell him that she had sought out his past, that she had done it more than once, that she had been horrified by what she had found? It seemed there was no way to do it, but the truth.

"I went to Lille a few years ago. I met your parents."

As she suspected he would, he scowled at her.

"They both passed away last year from influenza," she continued softly. "Your father had a sister who died several years ago. Josephine is her daughter."

"How...why...?" Erik stared at her for a moment, uncomprehending. "A cousin?"

"Her name is Josephine," Christine supplied. "She's fourteen years old, and she's been through a lot, so I would like it if you could be a little nicer to her next time."

_"Nicer?"_

"She was raised by your parents, Erik," she said quietly. "She has not had a good life."

"Well I'm sure it was nothing compared to how they treated me," he muttered.

"I should go see how she is. I promised her that I would not just drop her off on your doorstep and leave her. She thinks I've lied to her."

Seeing him like this had caught Christine off guard, and she knew she looked a mess. Her hair was plastered to her face from sprinting across town in search of Josephine, and the dress she was wearing felt damp all down her back. Her emotions were not under control, and she had the inexplicable urge to throw herself in his arms and embrace him as she had done Bernadette.

"I will come to Bernadette's tomorrow. Will you be there this time?"

Erik nodded once. "Will you bring the girl?"

"I will see if she is ready," Christine said quietly. "It's good to see you, Erik."

She turned and walked back to the hotel, feeling more than one set of eyes watching her. But it was his that she felt the most.

# - # - # - #- # - # - #

Lesley was in her garden, showing Ruth which flowers she wanted for an arrangement, when her father rode up in his gig. She repressed a groan, because he never visited her at home unless it was something he could not wait to pester her with until she arrived for dinner later. And judging by the grumpy expression on his face, today was going to be no different.

"Good afternoon, Father," she greeted him uneasily.

"Afternoon, Sissy." He squinted at Ruth and her basket of flowers. "What, you can't trust her enough to do this by herself?"

Lesley closed her eyes a moment, struggling for patience. "Miss Ruth and I always gather flowers together, don't we Ruthie?"

Her hard of hearing maid didn't answer, and her father's face turned red. Lesley hastily steered him away from her maid not wanting to cause trouble for Ruth or her family.

"What brings you out this way, Father? Has your heart been bothering you again?" Lesley asked, knowing it would irritate him and take the focus off Ruth.

"Ought to fire that insolent woman," he muttered. "No, no it's about that fiancé of yours."

"What has Erik done now?" Lesley asked, knowing it would amount to nothing.

"Has he ever mentioned his daughter?"

Lesley froze, her mind going blank for a moment, then she laughed. "Father, Erik doesn't have any children."

"Are you sure about that? Because a Frenchwoman arrived in town a few days ago, and today they were all strolling through Savannah together, Erik, the woman, and a child that looks just like him. Looked like they were arguing mighty fierce."

"Well maybe she's family," Lesley said, not wanting him to see how shaken she was. She knew next to nothing of Erik's past. It remained closed to her, and she had given up on learning anything about his life before he came to Savannah. If the pain in his eyes was any indication, something terrible had happened, and she had no wish to make him relive it. "I'm sure Erik would have told me if he had a child." At her father's doubtful look, she added bravely, "And if he does, then I will be more than happy to meet his daughter."

"What if this other woman...?" her father began.

"I'm sure Erik has an explanation, and I will ask him about it the next time I see him," Lesley said lightly. "You know how those old gossips in town are. Don't listen to them."

"I saw him with my own eyes!" He shook his finger in her face, making Lesley feel like she was seven years old again. "You mark my words, Sissy, that man is no good for you. I knew it the minute I...ah...never mind. I can just tell he's a bad one."

The way her father's eyes shifted, Lesley could tell he was either lying or nervous. She knew about her father's late night raids, just as she knew that the colored woman Erik thought he was tutoring in secret had been the target of one of them. Once or twice she had questioned her father about his activities, and both times he'd grown so coldly furious that she had done as he suggested and shut her mouth. It was the unspoken reason that her mother had left. She had felt ashamed of her husband, and of his rigid views of society.

Lesley had been very young, and could barely remember her leaving. She knew that her father had kept good on his promise to cut all ties to her, financial and otherwise. He had also forbidden his wife from ever contacting their daughter again, and to this day Lesley had never heard from her again.

She stayed because, well, she wasn't really sure why she stayed. Lesley supposed because he was her father, and she could not imagine abandoning him, no matter what he had done. So she did as she had always done. She bottled her true feelings, and sent him home.

Then Lesley went into town to have a look at the woman her fiancé had encountered today - and perhaps catch a glimpse of the girl that he had never, ever mentioned.

* * *

"Erik, you are going to wear a hole in the floor with all this pacing," Bernadette said nervously. "Why don't you sit down?" 

He didn't even spare her a glance, but did look at the clock again for the hundredth time. "She's late."

"She's a woman. We're always late," Bernadette replied dryly. "Would you sit? I'm getting a sore neck just watching you."

"What should I do about Lesley?" Erik asked, moving to the window to peer out of it. "What should I tell her?"

"What have you told her?" Bernadette asked. He gave her a look that said everything. "Really, Erik. You haven't told her anything?"

"I never thought I would need to. Jesus, Bernadette. How was I to know Christine was going to show up after all these years? And if I tell her...if I tell her, then I'll lose her. I don't want that."

For the first time, Erik managed to surprise her. Bernadette had lain awake the last few nights since Christine had arrived, worrying herself sick over what Erik would do. First the mask, then his temper had returned with stunning force. One of his students had left in tears, prompting a parent to come to her door, demanding to speak with him. Thankfully he had been gone, because there was no telling what he might have done in one of his moods.

"What do you want?" Bernadette pressed.

Erik stared down at the floor, a muscle in his jaw working so hard she could see the mask moving. "I don't know," he admitted softly. "I just don't know."

Erik lifted his head as he caught the jingle of carriage harness, and the clipping of horse hooves outside. Bernadette went outside, and he watched as his cousin descended, then a heavyset, heavily bejeweled woman who could only be Juliette Dvorak, and then Christine. There was no one else in the carriage, and he let out a breath of relief, glad that he did not have to contend with any of Christine's paramours.

They entered the room, all laughing and chattering at a decibel loud enough to make him wince. Josephine was even smiling slightly as Bernadette fawned over her, patting her cheeks, and hugging her about the shoulders. It was only when she caught sight of him that she stopped, and stared at him with wide eyes.

The three women surrounded her and pushed her forward, as if she were some sort of sacrificial lamb and he a wolf. Erik could see terror in her eyes, bone deep terror, and he wished he possessed a semblance of charm to put her at ease.

Instead he stared at her, finding not only her eyes like his own, but her hair the same shade, as well as the shape of her face. Thank God she was normal, was all Erik could think.

"Erik, this is Josephine," Bernadette informed him, as if it were necessary. "Isn't she pretty?"

His eyes darted to Bernadette's, then back to Josephine's. "Of course she is," he murmured, giving a little bow. "I am sorry if I've frightened you, mademoiselle. I was taken by surprise to see you yesterday."

Josephine said nothing, and after a moment turned her face into Juliette Dvorak's large bosom.

"Josephine is a little shy," Juliette said, stroking the girl's hair. "Why don't you go with Madame Giry into the kitchen, darling? Christine and I want to talk to your cousin Erik."

Erik looked at Christine, then at Bernadette, who coaxed the girl from the room with the promise of sweets. He was left alone with a rather large woman who was sizing him up, and Christine, who seemed to have nothing at all to say to him now.

"Do you want her?" Juliette demanded. "Because if you don't, then I do. And if you are anything like your father..."

"Juliette!"

"I am _nothing _like my father," he breathed furiously. "If she is my family, I will take care of her. Neither _one_ of you has a right to her."

"I won't let you hurt her," Juliette said, inching up to him. "If you so much as think of it..."

"Juliette! Enough!" Christine said sharply, pulling her away. "Please, could you just give us a moment?"

With one last dramatic toss of her red tinged hair, Juliette strode from the room.

"I'm sorry. She's always like that," Christine said, removing her hat to fan herself. "Juliette never tires of stirring things up."

"Well I do not appreciate it. She reminds me of..."

"Don't say it," Christine warned with a smile. "She'll take you apart limb from limb. And she's nothing like Carlotta. Juliette is very loyal, especially...especially to those who need a helping hand."

"I don't want or need her help," Erik replied shortly. "And I don't like the idea of a young girl like Josephine being around a woman like Juliette Dvorak."

Instantly defensive, Christine crossed her arms over her chest, and stared at him. It was good to know that she wasn't feeling cowed by him, and it was also good to know that she could open her mouth and say to him what she had said to Raoul, Roman, and a dozen other men who had dared to degrade her friend.

"Juliette Dvorak is a_ lady,_" Christine said, her eyes flashing with anger. "Don't you ever judge her, or belittle her for the life that she has lived."

"She's a faded star, and I've read accounts of her orgies for the last twenty years in the_ Epoque_."

Christine drew back, pained at his words. _Faded star? _Did he consider her the same thing? Did he even _know?_

"Juliette is my friend. She is my _only_ friend, so I will thank you not to criticize her," she finally replied, her tone level and cold. "I did not come to discuss Juliette anyway. I came to discuss Josephine, and what is best for her."

"Bernadette can take care of her, obviously. She raised you. She raised Meg, and two dozen other girls at one time." Erik backed away from Christine, surprised to see her breathing hard from the courageous defense she had given the old opera star. "It will be good for her to have someone here once I'm gone," he finished.

"Gone?"

Erik shifted his feet uncomfortably, and realized he was not ready to tell her about Lesley Ann. "Ah...yes. I'm going to be moving in a few months. Just across town."

"Oh." Christine looked puzzled, but did not press him for a better answer. "That would be best, I think. Josephine doesn't trust very easily."

He tilted his head as loud, feminine laughter drifted out of the kitchen. Bernadette was laughing. Suddenly his heart caught, and Erik struggled to remember the last time that he had heard it. Ages - far too long. Joined with it was lighter female giggling, and he knew it was his cousin. "Would you tell me about her?" he asked politely. "Please."

"What do you wish to know?"

"When...how did you first meet her?"

"I went back to Paris a few years ago," Christine replied, glancing away. "I was shocked and frightened by all that had happened there. So much had changed, and I couldn't find anyone. I remembered you talking about where you had grown up, and Lille was on my way back to Stockholm."

"Stock..." Erik cut himself off abruptly. "I'm sorry. Continue."

"Josephine was just a child then. She looked so pitiful, playing in the yard with a broken doll. I went into the village and bought her a new one. The next time I returned, about two years ago, your father...," Christine stopped, trying to judge his mood, but he was listening patiently. "Your father chased me off the property with a gun."

Erik's eyes widened in shock when she laughed, even as anger and embarrassment filled his senses.

"Don't worry, I probably deserved it after the things I said to him." Christine assured him.

"He could have..._would_ have shot you. My father..."

"Was a mean old drunk. _Was_ being the most notable part of that sentence. I'm sorry that they died. You should have had the chance to face them again," Christine interrupted. "I should have taken Josephine with me then, but I didn't. I'll always regret that. She would have had a better life with you and Madame Giry."

"With Bernadette perhaps," Erik muttered, looking away.

"And you."

Not knowing how to respond to that, Erik moved to look out the window, watching Bernadette's delphiniums swaying in the breeze. Everything that Christine knew about him and his parents would have been found in that journal she had stolen. So why had she gone anyway? Why had frightened little Christine Daae chased down his past? Why had she gone into places that even he would not want to return to?

"Erik..."

He turned to find her standing near, one hand reaching out to touch him, and his heart began to pound. She was still so lovely, although he could not say that he cared for the way her hair was pinned flat against her head. It was defiant in the heat, and beginning to wave despite the obvious pains she had taken to ensure that it would not. In this humidity, it would not be long before her well coiffed mane was unruly again.

"Yes?" he managed to whisper.

"I just wanted to tell you..."

"Erik! You have a visitor!" Bernadette called from the kitchen.

He whirled around to see that his fiancée's gelding was standing in the driveway, and Lesley was leaping from his back. With a curse, he brushed past Christine and walked outside, intercepting Lesley before she made it even halfway to the door.

"What are you doing here?" he asked sharper than he intended to.

Lesley, quite used to his gruff manner, but not the mask, stared at him. "What is that you're wearing?"

Erik's hand automatically went up to the mask, and with a glance back at the house, he guided Lesley away from the windows and out into the trees near the river. "This? I...ah...I wear this sometimes."

"Well I've never seen it before. I don't like it."

She tried to remove it, then with an impatient jerk, Erik took it off, and glared down at her.

"You should ask first before touching it," he snapped, placing the mask beneath one arm. "You never answered my question. What are you doing here?"

"Is it against the law for me to visit my fiancé at his home?" Lesley asked quietly. "I wanted to see you. It's been almost a week since I've seen you."

"That's hardly uncommon. You know I've been working."

Anger flared in her heart, and she glanced back at the house, wondering how much he was willing to lie to her. "Is Ms. Giry in? I would like to meet her."

"_Now?_"

"Well we're engaged now. Don't you think I should meet her?" Erik lifted his gaze to the sky, and Lesley wound her arms around his chest before he could move. "You never told me how you're related. Is she an Aunt?"

"Lesley..."

"Erik," she returned, tilting her head back to look at him. "I want to meet her."

"Not today."

It stung. Oh, how it stung. She knew _that woman _was in there. She also knew the girl was in there, and he was keeping her from the truth. Lesley wanted to scream at him, to demand that he tell her these things. His arms went around her tightly, and she felt like crying.

"Not today," he said again, kissing the top of her head. "We...we have guests from out of town. It's..."

"You don't want me to meet them?" Lesley asked softly.

Erik looked down at her, saw her mouth wobbling, and knew he'd made a mistake in not telling her about his past when Christine. But what in the hell was he supposed to say to her to make her understand? How in the world could he ever explain the madness of those years at the Opera Populaire?

"It's complicated."

"Complicated how?" Erik didn't answer, and Lesley began to grow angry again. "Erik, I want to go inside the house and meet your guests."

"No." Erik refused to yield.

"My father saw you in town yesterday," she said baldly. "Would you at least have the courage to tell me whether or not you lied to me two years ago, when you said that you had never been with a woman before?"

Erik's face began to heat, but he looked her in the eyes. "No. I didn't lie to you. Hell, why would I have?"

"I don't know. You tell me." She pulled out of his arms, and jabbed a finger against his chest. "You tell me if that girl in there is your _daughter_ or not. And tell me who Daina Christensen is, and how you know her."

"Josephine is my cousin,_ not_ my daughter. And Daina Christensen is an opera singer. I've never met her."

Lesley let out a great huff of air, and her eyes quite suddenly looked as if they could inflame him with one glance. "Then what is she doing in your house if you've never met her?"

"That is Juliette Dvorak. She's not even in the same category of singer as Daina Christensen, from what I have _read_ in the newspaper, and from letters I receive from other music teachers in Europe."

"I'm not _talking_ about the _old woman_. I'm talking about the name listed on the hotel register where they are staying," Lesley replied through clenched teeth. "I'm talking about the woman whom you were arguing with in the courtyard behind the bakery."

"That isn't Daina Christensen. Her name is Christine Daae," Erik replied, his heart racing in trepidation.

Lesley's face drained of color, and she looked past him to the house. "Christine?" she whispered softly.

Erik had never said that name to her before.

But he called out to Christine in his sleep.


	37. A Glimpse Into the Past

The woman pulled away from Erik, and he hauled her back into his arms. It seemed she was struggling against him, but a moment later she was kissing him, and he had threaded his hands through her hair, holding her captive. Lying on the ground near their feet was a speck of white.

Christine felt like a voyeur, but was unable to look away. Something was weighing on her chest, and she couldn't breathe. She could barely make out the two figures, embracing in the copse of trees, but she could see that they had argued, and now they were making up. Erik wasn't wearing his mask, and the woman was kissing him. A chestnut horse wandered down towards them, and nudged the woman in the back, sending her stumbling closer to Erik.

"Who is she?" Christine whispered.

Bernadette slipped up behind Christine and put her arms around her. "That is Lesley Ann. She is...well...she and Erik are...engaged."

Christine closed her eyes, willing the sudden flash of jealously away. She had no right to feel that way. Shock rippled through her, but when she opened her eyes, the image of them together was still there.

She turned away from the window and met Bernadette's gaze. "You didn't mention this before."

"It wasn't my place," Bernadette replied. "The past is past, is it not? Erik has waited far too long to find someone, and he appears to be happy. I hope you won't..."

"I would never do that to him," Christine said sharply. "I'm just surprised, is all."

"Erik is worried about it, you know. He thinks if Lesley knows the truth, then she will leave him."

"She won't hear it from me," Christine grumbled.

Now Christine was glad that they had been interrupted, because she had been about to say something undoubtedly foolish. How mortifying it would have been, telling him that she had missed him, when he belonged to someone else! Feeling her mood quickly turning black, Christine bent to give Bernadette a kiss.

"I really should be going. I think Josephine has had enough excitement for one day, and if I don't have Juliette back at the hotel before it gets really hot, she will never forgive me."

"But you just arrived! Christine..."

"I'll come by again," Christine said, forcing a cheerful tone. "And you can come visit me. Perhaps we'll go up to New York and see a performance before I leave."

Immediately Bernadette stiffened, but Christine didn't notice. She began to call for Juliette and Josephine, and was about to open the door and call for the carriage, when Erik stepped through the door.

His mask was back on, and his fiancée was nowhere in sight. He took one look at her, arranging her gloves and hat, then at the pair coming down the hall.

"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded.

"I'm going back to the hotel," Christine replied breezily. "Juliette doesn't like to travel in the heat. It's only ten and already I can feel my cheeks getting flushed."

"Then let her return. I need to speak to you," Erik countered. "Right now."

With a glare, Christine turned and went back into the sitting room and stripped her gloves and hat off again. "I already know what you're going to say. You don't have to worry about me telling your fiancée anything."

"Thank you, but that isn't what I need to speak to you about. Why are you registered at the hotel under another name?"

Christine tossed him a wide, confident smile as he sat down. "I always use that name when traveling. It opens doors quicker, gets water heated faster, and they give me the best rooms."

"But it isn't _your _name." Erik hesitated a moment, then frowned. "Is it?"

"My stage name," Christine admitted, her eyes bright with excitement. "I take it that you've heard of me?"

An unwilling smile crossed Erik's lips, and for a moment both of them grinned at each other like two insipid people, caught in a delightful secret. Erik tried but could not remove the smile from his face, and knew if he wasn't careful, she would be in his arms, and then his world would be truly upside down.

"Daina Christensen?" he asked in disbelief. "_You_ are Daina Christensen?"

"In the flesh," Christine replied, flinging her arms up and laughing. "I wondered sometimes if you might figure it out. Daina was my mother's name, if you recall?"

Half shaking, half nodding his head, Erik vaguely remembered that. "But we thought...we thought you were..."

"Thought I was what?" Christine questioned him.

Erik just looked at her, thinking of what de Chagny's valet had seen, then shrugged. "I don't know. I don't know what I thought. After Meg...when Meg died, I wanted to find you, to make sure you were safe, but Bernadette was not doing well. I had to get her away from France, and I had no idea where to look for you."

"After the war, it would have been impossible for you to have found me. Even before. I could not find work under my own name."

"De Chagny searched for you. He found almost nothing," Erik said, absently rubbing the old wound on his leg. "He went to the Berlin Opera."

Christine glowered at him. "Yes, he told me. I wanted to crawl under a rock after I left that place. Dresden too. After I left there, Christine Daae was as good as dead to me. Only a few people know who I really am, and I prefer it that way, if you don't mind."

Erik sat back, studying her for a moment. It had been a long time since he had seen her, but he could tell a great difference between the girl she had been, and the woman she had become. Christine Daae would have crumpled beneath his anger, come in tears, begging to be forgiven for each slight against him. She probably would not have come at all. And yet, here she stood before him, looking him in the eyes, and he could tell that she was very _proud_.

Christine moved to sit in the chair beside him, and gave him a strained smile. "The secrets you and I share stretch long before what happened that last year in the opera. I would like for us to be...friends...if it is possible. Everything that happened should be dead and buried."

"Bernadette told you..." he began quietly, only to have her silence him when she touched his arm.

"I wish you all the happiness in the world, Erik. I always have," Christine murmured softly. "I would just ask one thing of you."

Immediately he tensed, and eyed her with suspicion. "What?"

"I want to meet Lesley before I return home."

Erik nodded, though it felt as if a thunderbolt had struck his heart. He could no more bear the thought of her leaving than he could of facing Lesley tonight - when he had promised to explain himself and his relationship to this woman.

* * *

"If your face gets any longer, I'm going to have to pour some of this schnapps down you," Juliette pronounced. "It's not the end of the world because he's getting married, you know." 

"I never said it was," Christine said, flopping backward on the bed. "I just wish someone had _told _me. I felt like an idiot, standing there about to try and make amends, thinking that if I did, he was going to feel the same way about me now as he did back then."

"So you wanted him to continue pining after you?" Juliette asked with a wicked gleam in her eyes. She leaned forward and plucked a piece of cheese from Josephine's plate, giving the girl an apologetic smile. "How very wicked of you, darling. I didn't realize you were so selfish."

"I never said that either. I'm actually relieved in a way," Christine said, studying the ceiling as if it could help her find the answers she sought.

Because she certainly could not identify her feelings, other than knowing she was vastly confused. If she were honest with herself, she would admit to being a little selfish. Erik had always been hers, and they had shared something very special. If she had not allowed others to tell her how to act, what to think, and if he had not confirmed her fears by doing all the things that he had done, then perhaps...

Christine shook her head, clearing her girlish daydreams. "It doesn't matter now. I do want him to be happy, and I understand now why he didn't want to see me."

"But?" Juliette prompted, eyeing her with womanly wisdom.

Christine clapped her hands over her eyes, wishing that there was no _but, _no_ if_... Except there was the knowledge that Raoul had moved on, Erik had moved on, and she was still fighting memories and desires she no longer understood. She still dreamed about Erik, still thought of him. And when she had looked into his eyes today, there had been an undeniable feeling of tenderness, affection, and_ w__anting._

So what exactly was it that she wanted? And what in God's name was she going to do about it?

"I think I should return to Stockholm," Christine said aloud. "It was a mistake coming here, and dragging all of this out again."

The old diva scoffed. "So you're just going to crawl back into that little flat of yours? Feel sorry for yourself because your voice is gone, and now your old loves have gone on to find new ones of their own? Darling, that's pathetic."

"Well what should I do?" Christine demanded, bounding off the bed. "Offer to help her with the wedding dress? Arrange a bouquet for her? Perhaps I should be a damned _bridesmaid_!"

"Well maybe you should!" Juliette replied smugly. "I thought you wanted him to be happy? You told Erik you wanted to be his friend. What better way to show him than to be supportive, to be there for him if he needs you?" Christine glared daggers at Juliette. "Then when he's about to say his vows, he'll see what a good woman you are, and change his mind," she added sarcastically, with a feline smile.

"I don't _want_ him to change his mind! I do want him to be happy." Christine turned, shrugging her shoulders to rid them of tension. "I just don't think I can watch him do it."

"Josephine, could you take your rabbit and go into the other room?"

Christine watched as the girl obeyed Juliette's request, closing the doors behind her as she did. She looked back to Juliette warily, certain she was about to be yelled at, but her friend patted the seat beside her.

"Do you know, I loved my husband more than I realized? Once Alberto was gone, I felt so empty, and we had never told each other that we loved each other. Not ever. But I knew how he felt for me, and I believe he knew that I loved him." Juliette dabbed at her eyes, and looked back at Christine. "Carlos had been with him for many years, but when Alberto was dying, he asked for me. Did I ever tell you that?"

"No," Christine murmured, remembering how devastated Juliette had been. She had become horribly depressed, gained far too much weight, and stopped socializing. Even now she would travel, but rarely left her hotel room. It had been something she and her husband had done together for a very long time, and now that he was gone, the joy had been taken from seeing new and old places. "I do think Alberto loved you, Juliette. I know he did."

"Yes, I suppose." The old diva took a deep breath, regaining control of her emotions. "What I'm trying to tell you is that I loved him, and I let him go. I didn't feel for him as I did for other men - it was not romantic. I know he never thought of me that way. But I did love him, enough to let him be happy and pursue his own interests."

"But at the cost of your own happiness?" Christine shook her head. "I won't burden Erik with my feelings. It wouldn't be right, but I still won't admit to liking him marrying. I have the right to be a little selfish. I just have enough sense to know that I _can't_ hide what I feel. And if I can't, then I should leave. It's as simple as that."

Juliette patted her cheek. "Darling, with love - nothing is ever simple."

* * *

Josephine absently squeezed the rabbit Christine had bought for her in Antwerp, rolling her fingers around an odd lump inside of it. Strange, she didn't remember feeling that when she had first gotten the rabbit, but then she had been too embarrassed to admit that she wanted it. Her cousin was even more imposing than she had imagined. In the pictures her Uncle Marcel had shown her, he had not been wearing a mask over his head.

His mother, Aunt Anne Marie, had been holding him by the hair, forcing him to look into the camera. Uncle Marcel's hands had been on his shoulders, forcing him to remain seated.

They had called it their family portrait, but to Josephine, it had been horrible to see as a child when combined with the stories Uncle Marcel had told her about Erik: that he ate blood, caught rats between his teeth, and that if she didn't behave, if she ever _told, _Erik would _hurt_ her. Josephine shivered, pressing the soft bunny against her cheek.

If Christine made her go live with him, she would run away. She would run away so far that no one would ever find her, because she would never let Erik hurt her.

Not like Uncle Marcel.

Josephine clenched her fist around the rabbit so hard that something stabbed her hand. Frowning, she looked at it's back, and could see that the seam had come undone. She squeezed it again, feeling the shape of whatever was inside.

Thinking it was a rock, or perhaps a chunk of coal, she pulled at the thread, working it loose, then reached inside.

What she pulled out was unlike anything she had ever seen before.

Resting in her hand, as blue as the ocean she had just crossed, was a large rock. She held it to the light, enthralled by the way it glittered in the light.

"Just a piece of glass," Josephine said wonderingly. "I wonder why they put it in a rabbit."

She started to put it back inside, but realized she had no way to sew the bunny back up. Instead she lay him behind her chair, and put the glass in her pocket.

Then she pressed her ear to the door, and eavesdropped on the rest of Juliette's conversation with Christine.

* * *

Lesley met Erik on the porch, motioning silently that her neighbor, Miss Chambers was probably watching them. Lesley had received no less than five visitors that morning, all wondering about Erik and his interlude with Christine Daae, then another three including her father that evening. At least now she could tell them that the girl was not Erik's daughter, and that Christine was a former student.

His first student, in fact.

Lesley's gut told her that there was much more to that story than Erik wanted to ever tell her, and the way his hands were sweating as he took a seat next to her on the swing let Lesley know that her instincts were right.

"You're wearing that thing again," she said, eyeing the mask with displeasure. "Will you remove it, please?"

"Of course," he mumbled as he slipped it off. "You prefer what I look like to this?"

Lesley's heart wrenched, making her nearly gasp for air. "Erik, what has gotten into you? Have I ever given you any idea that your scars make a difference in how I feel about you?"

Hearing her say that, Erik's face colored in embarrassment. Lesley had never even mentioned his scars. Sometimes he would catch her studying him, and occasionally she attempted to kiss that side of his face. He always gave her his lips instead; never did he offer the truth.

"Do they?" he asked quietly, his eyes trained to the painted white boards on the porch.

"No. No they don't," Lesley returned fiercely. "And damn you for even thinking it."

She rose from the swing, her face set in cold anger. Something had happened to him when Christine arrived, something that left her fiancé in turmoil. They weren't especially close in many respects, but Lesley had grown protective of him, and when they made love it was always passionate. He was always a little preoccupied, and he didn't ever share his feelings, but they had somehow managed to make a connection. One that Lesley did not want to lose.

"Lesley..."

"Erik, I want to know why you're wearing that mask. Why wouldn't you introduce me to your guests? I can't build a life with you, based on lies and secrets. I _won't_ do it."

"I have lied to you," he said softly. "I've lied to everyone in Savannah about who I am. About_ what _I am."

Closing her eyes and shaking her head, she took a step away from him. "You_ lied_ to me? What _exactly_ have you lied to me about?"

"Please just listen before you get angry-"

"Oh, we are beyond that! I have been angry since my father came to my house last night to tell me what he had seen in town! I was angry last night when you didn't come to explain anything to me, and I am _furious_ that the _entire_ town knew about her being here before I did!" she exploded. "So don't tell me not to get angry, Erik! My God, is that even your real name?"

"Of course it is! Would you please sit down? I haven't exactly lied. I just omitted-"

"Now you're lying about lying!"

"Lesley, sit!" Erik shouted, getting to his feet. He pointed to the swing until she did as he ordered, and with an irritated glance, noticed that her neighbor was unabashedly watching from her window. "Listen to me, _please._ I have let people believe certain things about me, because they seemed ready to do so, and it was not their business in any case. When I came here, I had no intention of even meeting a single resident of this town, so I was rather surprised to find people wanting an introduction to that _poor_ Frenchman who had been wounded in the war."

He looked at Lesley, and saw how upset she was becoming, how upset she already was, and he let go of his anger.

"You deserve the truth, no matter how much I don't want to relive it. I will tell you that I was not wounded in the war. I was not injured in any fire, any _accident_ of any sort."

"Someone did this to you?" Lesley asked slowly.

Painfully he lowered himself to one knee, looking in her eyes. "No. Lesley, I was born with these scars. I am not a war hero. I've looked like this since birth."

He closed his eyes as she traced his cheek. "But I thought..."

"I never told anyone that I was injured in the Commune. It is what they assumed, and it was easier than trying to explain." His eyes opened as she brushed a light kiss on his lips, then he caught her hand. "I've never tried to glorify my name. I've never told any brave stories of fighting in the war."

"You were shot," Lesley said suddenly. "I've seen it."

"That has nothing to do with my face. A man was going to shoot Patrice, and I pushed her out of the way. Yes, it was during the war, but I'm not a soldier. I wasn't fighting on either side."

Lesley thought about it for a moment, then nodded, believing him. She desperately wanted to know everything, because it was killing her to think the worst of him. "What else is there?"

"Are you sure you want to know, Lesley?" he whispered. "Are you very sure?"

"Please, Erik. Just tell me," she replied, her tone reflecting the fear that she felt.

"I was a criminal. I hurt people. I was selfish and cruel, and did whatever I pleased because no one could stop me."

"No," Lesley protested, pulling away.

"Yes. You need to hear this, Lesley. I thought I could lie to you, and polish the truth, make it seem less vulgar, but I can't. I don't want you to hate me, but I can't stop myself from telling you everything." He bent his head enough to touch her knee with his forehead, and dried his eyes on her dress. "I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry..."

It was his tears that broke her resolve, because the only time he had ever cried was the first time they had made love. It was the only real emotion that he had ever shown, and she had known how real it was by the pain in his eyes.

"Come inside with me," she whispered against his hair. "Tell me everything. I promise, I'll listen. I won't say anything."

In the house next door a curtain fluttered, and the old woman sat back in her chair in disappointment, wondering what she would have to talk about at tea the next day.

# - # - # - #

* * *

Erik's story left Lesley in tears, and by the end of it he knew two things. She had forgiven him, but she now hated Christine Daae.

She hated her for what had happened in Paris, for the betrayal, and for leaving him beneath the cellars of the opera house. She hated her because of her beautiful voice, and because he had loved her.

Mostly she hated her for coming back into his life, and for making him feel as if he needed to wear the mask again. Lesley was also quite curious about that ring he still wore beneath his shirt, which he removed along with his clothing when they were alone and upstairs.

"I don't understand how she came in possession of the girl, Josephine," Lesley railed. "Why is she here now? Why_ now?_"

"She came to tell me that my parents had died last year," Erik replied, absently twisting Lesley's engagement ring. "I had no idea about Josephine until yesterday."

"Your parents died?" Lesley asked, her tone softening. "I'm sorry. I had no idea they were even alive. I just assumed..."

"They have been dead to me for over twenty years," he cut in. "_Don't_ apologize for them."

Seeing a stubborn angle to his chin, she decided not to delve into that matter. "So Christine was just being a good Samaritan, and bringing Josephine to you?"

"I don't think I would have ever seen her again, if not for Josephine," Erik agreed. "She has her own life now. I have mine. And I hope you can forget about the past, because I forgave her long ago. I was not worthy of love then, and she was too young to understand the reasons why I tried to win her affections the way that I did. I want to make peace with her. Do you understand, Lesley?"

"No," she declared vehemently. "But for your sake, I will abide her presence until she's gone."

"Thank you," he said quietly, though he loathed the thought of Christine leaving. "She does wish to meet you."

"Oh?" His fiancée gave him an arch look. "For what reason?"

"I don't know. Perhaps she wishes to be dazzled by your charm and kindness," he replied, earning a slap on the arm.

"Be serious. I don't think I want to meet her. She's so _French_."

"Actually, she is Swedish."

Lesley gave him a warning glance, and he shut his mouth before launching into a history of Christine's family tree.

"So Bernadette Giry is...?"

"A friend. Nothing more," he said carefully. "A very dear friend. I'm very close to her."

"If you want her to live with us, Erik, just say it."

Erik pursed his lips. "I want her to live with us. I don't want her to be alone."

"Then I should definitely meet her soon." Lesley glanced at the clock, surprised to find it well after midnight. "More fodder for gossip. You need to return home. You've exhausted me."

"And we didn't even go upstairs," he murmured softly.

Lesley chuckled against his chest as he held her, listening to the steady thump of his heart. "It won't stop them from wagging their tongues. My father is sure to get wind of it this time."

"Do you honestly care?"

"Yes. I do." Lesley looked up at him, her expression one of worry because she could see no possible end to their feud. "If I play nice with Christine, will you-"

"Lesley-"

"Not even going to consider it, hmm?" She lay her head back on his chest, and let him hold her a moment longer. "Erik, I do love you," she said softly, "but you're far too stubborn for your own good."

His arms tightened around her, and he kissed her forehead gently.

No matter how hard his heart raced, it seemed that he could not expel the words from his lungs.

# - # - # - #

* * *

"I found them!" Constance announced as she strode into the room. "Daina Christensen boarded a ship for New York three weeks ago. We should be able to track them from there."

Her brother smoothed the whiskers on his face, and managed a grunt. "Does this mean we can get out of this flea infested hotel? God, I hated Paris before the war. Now it's even worse."

Constance placed one curvy hip on his chair, and gazed down at Gordon with something akin to affection, or perhaps it was only pure joy that they now had a lead. "What it means, you hairy ape, is that you get to leave France. It means you'll need to be shaving, and disguising yourself very well, because if that diamond has been found, you're going to need to get very close to that opera singer."

"I hate opera," Gordon complained. "And where are we going to get the money to pay for ticket fare to board the ship?"

Constance dropped her reticule in his lap, and he winced as it hit him in a delicate spot. "I was bored this morning, and I stopped by Cartier's on the way to the record office at the docks. Picked up a couple of items."

Gordon lifted out several necklaces, all of high quality but that could be easily fenced with the right connections.

"I am humbled by your skill, my dear sister," he said, passing the jewelry back to her. "Be sure and give Louis my best."

She tucked the necklaces back into the reticule, then patted his cheek harder than necessary. "I will most certainly do that. Now get dressed. We leave tonight!"

# - # - # - #

* * *

Erik and Christine avoided each other quite well in the following weeks. Erik gave his music lessons mid morning, and Christine brought Josephine to visit Bernadette while he occupied himself in the boathouse. Sensing how little his cousin wanted to do with him, Erik did not pressure the girl into meeting with him alone. Instinct told him that the terror in her eyes was not because she was traumatized by the recent loss of her guardians, nor was she simply frightened of his mask. He kept it on now despite the discomfort, and only took it off when alone with Lesley or Bernadette. It gnawed at him to think of Christine seeing his face, no matter how much his fiancée tried to change his mind, or how often Bernadette badgered him about it.

It seemed inevitable that they would meet again before summer ended, and on Christine's fourth week in town, fate had her way with them again.

Christine was not unaware of the tension surrounding the city. She could tell the lines were clearly drawn on each side of town, and from her experiences in Europe, the freed slaves of America were hated with more vehemence than the Jewish people were there. Juliette, while not particularly religious, was half Jewish, though not many knew of it. She had told Christine of the prejudices she had encountered in certain circles, and how Alberto's parents had disliked her because of it.

It was clearly another issue in the South, because these people could not hide their differences. Everywhere Christine went in Savannah, the people had something to _say, _and they said nothing at all! Quickly she discovered that any refutation of their beliefs was met with scorn, but her father had taught her never to act foolish to please the ignorant, and she never would.

One Sunday morning as their carriage pulled up to Bernadette's, she heard a faint sound.

_Singing...and it was coming from the forest._

"You go on inside," Christine said to Juliette and Josephine. Her eyes scanned the trees that ran near the river, but she couldn't see a thing. "I'm going to take a walk."

Juliette cocked her head to listen, then gave her a strange look. "You're going to take a walk in there?" she asked, pointing to the trees.

Mesmerized, Christine could only nod, and she walked across the lawn towards the sound of a chorus unlike any she had ever heard before. It was so powerful and heartwarming, it made the hair on the back of her neck began to stand. She never even noticed that she was walking through water over an inch deep, nor that there was no discernible path. She simply knew that she had to move closer to hear it, to see it. She stopped when a small wooden structure was visible in the piney forest.

It felt as if the ground trembled beneath her feet as voices were raised clear to heaven. And sitting on a log on the other side of a small clearing, was Erik.

He jerked his head up when he saw her, and from a distance, Christine could see that he was unmasked. Respectfully she turned her eyes back to the church. She listened to the hymns belted from within, and she could feel their strength, hope, and pain as they drew to a close. One female voice stood out among them all, and Christine envied her for the resonance with which she finished the song.

When she opened her eyes, Erik was walking towards her, the mask covering half his face. "What are you doing here?" Without waiting for an answer, he looked down at the hem of her dress, which was filthy from the swampy ground she had just traversed. "You're lucky you didn't cross paths with a snake, or worse."

"Or worse?" Christine blinked at him. "What could be worse than a snake?"

"An alligator, perhaps?" he said, almost smiling when her eyes grew wide. "Don't worry, I'm sure someone would have heard you screaming before it ate you."

_"Ate me?"_

Taking a perverse delight in her shock, Erik found it irresistible to tease her. "They live along the rivers all across the South. People around here eat them. I suppose it is only fair that they retaliate on the occasional intruder."

Christine stared at his too somber expression, and decided he was definitely making fun of her. "What are _you _doing here?"

"The same thing as you, I would imagine. Listening to them sing," he replied, turning to look back at the little church. "We should leave though. I don't like to intrude. It makes them nervous."

"But who are they?" Christine craned her neck around to look. "I'd really like to go inside and listen."

"Christine, those are freed slaves. You can't go inside."

She frowned, "Why ever not?"

"Because they wouldn't understand why you would want to, and it would cause trouble for them if anyone from town discovered it." Her frown deepened, and a stubbornness came across her expression letting him know that it was now an essential part of her. "Do you hear the soprano?"

"How could I miss her?" she murmured. "If I could sing like that, I'd be doing encores for the rest of my life."

"Yes, she's amazing," he agreed. "Viola has been taking lessons from me, not that she needed any help. She's lucky to have a voice at all, considering the way that I found her."

Christine looked at him – noticed the tight set to his lips, and the anger blazing from his eyes. "The way you found her?" Christine prompted.

Erik stalked across the clearing to the place where he had been sitting, and returned with a bundle of rope in his arms. He dropped all but one, and she could see that it was a hanging noose.

"I spend the better part of my mornings cutting these down," he with quiet anger. "Three years ago I found Viola, her husband, and their five year old son all hanging from a tree."

Christine covered her mouth, sickened by what she had just heard. "Why?"

"Why do you think, Christine? The men who murdered Viola's family claimed that they did it because her husband had assaulted another man. A_white_ man. William had not attacked anyone, he was defending himself against three stupid young men who were having a bit of sport with him and his boy. If you go into the church, it might well be death warrants for them all, merely for speaking to you."

Erik picked up the remaining bits of rope, and she could see clearly how furious it made him. He glanced up at her, then down again at her dress.

"You might as well come with me," he said, his tone offering no compromise. "My horse is just through those trees."

He stalked away, leaving her no choice but to follow. As she passed by the steps of the church, she looked up into the small nave over the door.

Hanging from the center was a noose.

Christine shivered, and quickened her pace after Erik's retreating figure.


	38. Erik Timothée

I wanted to say thanks to all the new people who are coming out and reviewing, and all the newcomers to the story - welcome! I really do appreciate each and every one! And I'm up to 500 (that's halfway, right? LOL).

* * *

"Your dress is bound to get dirtier," Erik said as he tossed the ropes across the horse's neck. "If you'd like, you can ride back, and I'll walk."

Christine eyed the strange looking saddle which sat atop the horse, and knew her bustle would never fit into it. And with the tight skirt she was wearing, she would more than likely rip the fabric. She also realized that Erik would have to, in fact, lift her onto the horse, and wondered what it would feel like to have his hands on her waist, feeling him close to her. After thinking of that, her cheeks flushed, and she knew it would not benefit either of them to find out. "Ah, I believe I'll just walk." Christine stroked the black and white spotted horse on the nose, marveling at his color. "What sort of horse is this? I've never seen one like it before."

"He's a Kentucky Saddler. I traded a year's worth of music lessons to the most horrendous piano player on earth, for this horse." Erik gave the horse an affectionate pat on the neck as he untied him. "If I had known what abuse my ears would suffer, he would still be pulling a wagon."

"That's terrible to say about a student," Christine said, though she couldn't help but laugh. "I hope by the time you finished, he, or she, was better."

"No," Erik shuddered, and began to lead her through the woods. "In fact, I think she might have gotten worse. There are only so many renditions of Mary Had A Little Lamb, and the Cradle Song that I can handle. I've made it a point now to refuse children under the age of ten, unless they have some glimmer of talent."

"How many students do you have?" Christine asked, peeking at him from the corner of her eyes.

"Currently twelve, not including Viola. Only three of them, including her, are worth my time."

"That isn't very nice, Erik."

"Clearly you have not been present at any of my lessons," he said with a chuckle. "If I had a franc for every unsatisfied parent who has come, demanding an explanation for his child's utter lack of control, I would be rich."

"Do they not practice?"

"Most of my students don't have the time necessary to devote to music. Many of them help their parents after school at a farm, or the shops in town. I'm not exactly first choice of teacher in any case," Erik added bitterly.

Christine was silent for a moment, wondering if it was because of his face, or simply his own irritability that pushed others away. He was still quite rough around the edges, and if she did not know him better, she would think he was in a constant black mood. But this was Erik as she remembered him, or rather, the Angel. Only now was it real because _he_ was at last real. Seldom did he offer praise, but when he did, it was sincere. He could listen to a performance and list every single thing he did not like, and perhaps only one thing that he did like.

At best, he was pessimistic. At worst, he was quite simply a grouch, and not about to change.

"What about you?" Erik asked, his rumbling voice breaking her train of thought. "How did you make the leap from Christine Daae, stranded at a Cologne train station, to Daina Christensen, the most celebrated diva of the last decade?"

"Ah, let's see," Christine mused, tapping her chin. "Well, first I tried cleaning opera houses, but was fired for being French, then I was fired for stealing food at another opera house. At yet another, they fired me for being French, _and_ for being Christine Daae. No matter how many times I said I was Swedish, they wouldn't believe me. I went to Prague and earned money as a seamstress, but I couldn't stay out of the opera house there. Eventually I became an assistant to Minna Ostheim."

"Ostheim?" Erik looked at her in surprise. "Isn't she the one who stabbed her understudy to death a few years back?"

"The one and the same," Christine said with a tinge of regret. "Minna had the devil's own temper. She was vicious. And yet even when they executed her, her fans were cheering her on. Juliette found me there in Prague, she and her husband Alberto. They helped me retrain my voice, did wondrous things with my hair, and helped my career every step of the way."

"We were all worried about you, Christine," Erik said softly. "Bernadette, she did not even tell me that you were missing for several months. I would have gone to find you, had I known, just to make sure that you were safe."

Christine's throat tightened, and she couldn't look at him. If she had, she would have told him how much she would have liked that. "We each went through a lot during the war. I suspect you no more want to think about those days than I do. It's over and done with now. We've moved on."

"You must have felt as if we abandoned you."

"Erik, please," Christine choked out. "I don't wish to discuss it."

"Well I do," he replied impatiently. "I've spent the last few years wondering whether or not you were forced into a life you would never be able to escape from, worrying that you were ill or dead, or God forbid, enslaved. De Chagny's valet told us you were..."

Christine stopped and stared at him. "Oh, yes. I heard. Well let me ease your troubled mind, Erik, I was not a _prostitute_. How silly of me not to have realized that he shared every vulgar detail of my journey with you. I didn't know you two were_ chums_."

"We weren't," Erik said coldly. "But he was just as worried about you as I, and we set aside our hatred long enough to agree that finding you alive and safe was the _only_ thing that mattered."

"Well I am safe, so just leave the rest of it be!" Christine returned angrily, then continued walking quickly along the narrow road. Oh, when she saw Raoul again, she was going to box his ears for not telling her that he had told Erik everything! She had no idea how or why they became acquainted, only that the last two months of the Commune, they had been trapped together beneath the opera. But Raoul had certainly never told her the extent of their apparent compromise. She glanced sharply at Erik as his long legs kept pace with hers, and saw that his face was rigid with fury. "Is that how Raoul ended up with Caesar? You decided to trade with him? Me for a horse?" Christine regretted her harsh words the moment they left her mouth. She knew they all must have been worried sick about her. She was still angry at herself for the things she had been forced to do to survive, not at Erik or Raoul for simply being concerned.

"Merde Christine, is that what you think?" Erik stepped in front of her, his lungs so hard it felt as if they might explode. "No. I didn't trade you for a horse. I traded you for Bernadette's _life. _Do you have any idea what happened to her when Meg died? Do you? She's gone, Christine. Meg is _gone_, and the woman who raised me died with her," he nearly shouted. With one sharp gesture, Erik pointed in the direction of the house. "That woman in there is just a shell. I used to pray that I would wake up one day, and it would be the day that _she_ returned. Well she's never coming back. While you were becoming a famous star, lying on satin sheets with your lovers, and receiving letters from admirers, Bernadette has been floundering in guilt, thinking that she shipped you off to your death. Don't play the sacrificial lamb with me. You never gave a damn about us in all these years to pen a frigging note and tell us you were even alive. You certainly never gave a damn about me. _Everything_ that I have done has been for_ her_."

Erik watched the play of emotions across her face, and for a moment she looked exactly as she had the night of _Don Juan_, uncertain and afraid, but then color washed back into her cheeks, and she returned his hard stare.

"Satin sheets?" Christine let out a chilling laugh. "I assure you, Erik, I would _never_ sleep on satin with my lovers. Silk is much, much softer."

# - # - # - #

* * *

Christine had wanted to make him angry after his gross assumptions, and it had definitely worked. Erik had nearly tripped over himself trying to get back to the house, and he hadn't even looked at her as she went inside. Juliette had already gone back to the hotel, most likely to take a nap. Bernadette and Josephine were looking through a recipe book when Christine entered the kitchen, still puffing from fury. She notice that the girl was frowning over each page. 

"Doesn't this look good?" Bernadette asked, her finger skimming across the page. "I can make this in the fall when the apples begin to ripen. Your cousin Erik loves apple strudels."

"You just look in here, and it tells you what to add?" Josephine asked, squinting as if to make the words clearer. "What does it say?"

"It tells me all the ingredients, and how much to have ready, then how to mix it all together." Bernadette nodded over the book. "And it tells me how long to cook it. Don't worry, Josephine, you'll pick up on English soon."

Christine stepped up behind Josephine, peering over her shoulder. "Yes, but it will be easier for you to learn French first."

Bernadette turned, her eyes wide with surprise. "She cannot read French?"

Josephine's face turned red, and she made a face at Christine. "I don't need to read a book. Reading is boring."

"But you will learn," Christine replied firmly. "Juliette and I both agree on this, so don't bother arguing. I know that Erik will too."

"Erik will what?" he asked sharply from the doorway.

Christine turned to find him still quite angry, and staring at her as if she were gossiping about him. "Josephine did not receive a proper education. I said that you will agree that she needs one."

The girl squirmed away from between them, and stared down at the floor as she backed away from her cousin. "I don't want to," Josephine insisted. "You cannot make me learn."

"Fine," Erik said, throwing his hands up in the air. "Be ignorant for all I care. You probably couldn't learn anyway."

Christine and Bernadette were both about to reprimand him, when Josephine lifted her head. "I can too. I'm not ignorant! I just don't like _you_!"

"Why am I not surprised?" He turned his eyes on Christine. "What have you told her about me?"

"It's not what _I've_ told her," Christine said quietly. She bent to whisper something in Josephine's ear, and the girl promptly fled from the room, edging as far from Erik as she possibly could. Once Josephine was gone, Christine looked back at Erik. "She has lived with your parents most of her life, Erik. I never told her anything, the girl has had her head filled with stories about you for ten years." Christine looked away, unable to tell him that final truth, because she did not want to hurt him, and she did not want to cause Josephine to feel embarrassed. "If you want nothing to do with her, then just let her be. But don't ever call her ignorant again."

"Erik, it was uncalled for," Bernadette added. "You need to apologize to her, and for goodness's sakes, tell her that your parents were the monsters, not you."

"And if you're angry with me, there's no need to take it out on her. You can yell at me all you like," Christine threw in, just to irritate him further.

Erik looked at both of them as if they had gone mad. They were each standing with their hands on their hips, staring him down with murderous expressions. It was Bernadette's eyes which made him feel shameful. He hadn't seen her this exasperated many times since Meg's death, and never for a good reason. He leaned across the counter and dropped a kiss against her forehead, then gave her a pained smile.

"I'll apologize if you make me that for breakfast tomorrow, Bernie," he said, thumping a finger down a the recipe book.

"Oh!" she spluttered, glaring after him as he left the room. "I told you, never call me that again! And I don't have any fresh apples!"

"Use canned ones, Bernie," Erik called from somewhere in the house.

Christine gaped after him, then looked at Bernadette who was scowling. "Bernie?" she repeated.

"Oh, those old women in town started calling me that. It's deplorable," Bernadette muttered. "They already have a Bernadette, Bernadette Pierce. And they have a Bernadette Rowlings. They call her Nadie. I hate that name."

Christine couldn't help but smile, and she leaned over to give Bernadette a kiss as well. "I think it's catchy," she said mischievously. "But I can tell you what Erik's middle name is, if it will make you feel better."

Bernadette's face brightened immediately, and she leaned forward. "Do tell, my dear. Do tell."

# - # - # - #

* * *

His little cousin was sitting outside on the large porch swing, holding something up at the light. When she saw him, her hand immediately closed around it and she stuffed it down into a pocket of her dress. 

"What do you want?" Josephine asked ungraciously.

"Apparently more abuse," Erik muttered beneath his breath, and stopped to lean against a post to look down at her. "Actually, Josephine, I have come to see what it is you want."

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, and she glanced around for Juliette or Christine.

"As much as I appreciate all that those ladies have done for you, I am your legal guardian. When they leave, you will remain here with Bernadette and me." Josephine looked away, her face turning pale, and Erik could see in her all that he had felt at her age: uncertainty, terror, and most of all need. "How old were you when your mother died?"

"I don't remember," Josephine replied tightly.

"Then you went to live with my father, your Uncle? Is that right?"

She shrugged. "Eventually."

"Eventually," Erik repeated quietly. "Meaning that you were shipped between friends and neighbors until someone found a relative who would take you in? Josephine, if I had known that you existed, I would have taken you away from that farm. I remember what it was like growing up there and-"

"You don't know a thing!" she burst out, pushing the swing as far back from him as it would go. Her foot slid on the porch, making her swing forward. Erik caught the swing and stopped it as he knelt in front of her. "I don't want to live here with you! I _hate_ you! You're just like_him_!" Josephine screamed at him.

"Like who?" Erik demanded. "Like my father? Is that what Juliette told you?"

"No. No, I always knew it. I always knew what Erik would do," Josephine rambled. "Erik was jealous. Erik would hurt me. Just li-like-"

"Josephine," Christine whispered from behind him. She knelt next to him and gathered the sobbing girl against her chest. "Erik will never hurt you. Not ever."

"Un-uncle s-said!"

"He lied to you, Josephine. Your uncle was a bad man, and he deserved to be punished for what he did." Christine stroked the back of the girl's head, feeling anger burn her stomach at what had been done to this child. "Look at me, sweetheart. Your cousin Erik was my music teacher from the time I was seven years old, until I was a young woman. He never hurt me. Not once. His father lied to you, and so did his mother. He's not a bad person, and he never was."

"What did he do?" Erik asked in a deadly tone, vastly confused by Christine's lie. _He had never hurt her? Since when?_

"It doesn't matter now. She's safe," Christine said softly. "She doesn't ever have to worry about it again. She doesn't have to think of it, because she did nothing wrong, and it will never happen to her again."

Christine felt him touch her back, and she moved slightly so that he could look at Josephine.

"She's right," he said, reaching up to touch her cheek, but pulling away when she flinched. "Nothing will ever happen to you again. You're safe. I _promise_ you that you're safe."

"We're not interrupting are we?"

Erik turned so sharply he felt a crick go in his neck, and stifled a curse.

Standing at the foot of the porch wearing a wounded look was Lesley, and her smug faced father.


	39. A Moment Closer

Lesley glanced from Erik to Christine Daae, then to the girl who was sniffling behind them. At first she had not been sure what she was watching, as the girl had not been visible. It looked as if they were praying or embracing, or doing a little of both, and then her father had spoken. The surprise then irritation on Erik's face told her enough to know that he was having an extremely private moment with Josephine - and with Christine.

"Are we interrupting?" her father asked again, then extended a handkerchief to the girl.

"Not at all," Christine replied smoothly, taking it when Josephine ducked behind her back. She turned and dried the girl's eyes, then kissed her cheek. "Josephine, why don't you go find Bernadette, and tell her that Erik has company?"

Christine drew a deep breath before she turned back around to face Erik's wide eyed fiancée. "You must be Lesley," Christine said, rising to her feet. "I am Christine."

"Of course. Erik has told me so much about you," Lesley replied, stepping up to link her arm through his. "This is my father, Judge Ernest Brunn."

"Yes, I've seen you around town," Christine said, remembering his unfriendly stare in particular. "Erik was just getting to know his cousin. You know how young girls can be sometimes. Everything upsets them, especially after losing your family like Josephine has."

"Is she going to be alright, Erik? She looked very distraught." Lesley had the grace to ask after Josephine.

"Bernadette will see to her," Erik told her. "What brings you out here today?"

"Oh, Father thought it would be nice if we could all sit down and talk about the wedding. You've been so busy with your guests, that we haven't even set a place. I've had a stack of invitations sitting on my desk for two weeks, and don't know what to put on them," Lesley prattled nervously. "Father thinks it would be a great idea if we had the wedding at his house."

"Does he?" Erik asked, looking at the Judge. "Bernadette has mentioned holding it here."

"Oh. Well." Lesley glanced uncertainly between her fiancé and her father. "You haven't said anything to me one way or the other."

"Now...Bernadette," the Judge said, waving a finger in the air. "Is she an aunt or another cousin?"

"She raised me," Erik replied in a barely civil tone.

"I'd like to see my baby girl married in the place where she was born. She deserves only the best."

Beside her, Christine could see Erik stiffen, and she envisioned him latching his hands around the old man's neck. "Ernest, is it? May I call you Ernest?" Christine asked, striding forward. "While they are getting all the details worked out, would you mind telling me a little bit about Savannah?"

The judge stared down at her with a frown, and she felt like batting her eyes at him.

"I'm awfully curious," she added with an indulgent smile. "Are you really a Judge? That sounds so very important."

"Why I certainly am," he said proudly, turning her toward the stables. "Are you really an opera singer? Turnabout is fair play, young lady."

Christine nodded slightly, not about to admit that she was in fact, retired. Behind her she could feel Lesley and Erik watching her, and they both breathed in relief when she and the judge dropped out of sight.

Christine listened with feigned interest to the judge's stories of the town, and how his forefathers had come to Savannah from good British stock and helped build the great state of Georgia. Politely she refrained from asking too many questions when he began to talk about the war, and with easiness she evaded the almost constant questions about Erik.

"Really, Ernest," she purred, "I haven't seen or heard from him in nearly a decade. I can't tell you a thing about him."

"But you knew him before...?"

"Oh, yes. As a student knows her teacher, nothing more. He's always been very strict. Music, music, music!" She managed a laugh, because that was the truth. "I would have never made it to the stage without his constant guidance."

"And he became your teacher when?"

Christine started to ask if he was writing a book, but was chagrined to realize he had every right to want to know about Erik. He was giving his only daughter to him, and undoubtedly Erik had told them nothing. "You know, I don't quite recall. I was very young when I began taking lessons from him."

"Well, he doesn't appear that much older than you," the Judge said graciously. "Not that you appear old, dear girl."

"Why _thank_ you! And no, he wasn't terribly old, which makes it all the more surprising that he was able to teach me. He's a brilliant musician."

"A musician, you say?" he pounced.

"Oh, yes. At least he used to compose." She worried her lip a bit, giving him a frightful look. "I wonder if he still does. Perhaps I shall ask Bernadette. She always knew him better than I did."

"Didn't Bernadette raise you as well?"

"Not really, although we were very close," she hedged. "Bernadette had a daughter named Meg. Forgive me, but it's too painful..."

"Of course, of course," the judge said, giving up. "Perhaps we shall go back and see what my daughter and her future husband have decided."

Christine led him into the house, following the sounds of female laughter to the kitchen where Lesley was hands deep in a bowl of fresh dough, and Bernadette was happily cutting up carrots. Erik was peering over Lesley's shoulder and murmuring something in her ear, which explained the laughter.

"Go away before I get flour on your clothes," Lesley ordered. "I'm not even sure what I'm doing, and I don't want to mess anything up."

"Oh, Christine," Bernadette said, giving her a cheerful smile. "I've just invited Lesley and her father to dinner. Will you be staying?"

Four pairs of eyes were focused on her, not including Josephine who was tucked away in the corner. "I really need to find Juliette," Christine said, eager to be alone. "We've always shared our meals in the evenings, and this heat has her feeling poorly."

"Well it was nice to meet you, Christine," Lesley said just a little too quickly. "I hope you'll leave your address so we can send you an invitation to the wedding. I know that Erik would really like it if you could come."

Lesley could not have stated her territory more clearly if she had branded Erik with a kiss right in front of her. It rankled; it burned. It left her lying awake more than half the night, thinking about them together, remembering the way he had kissed her, and how much he had changed since Paris. Was it Lesley? Had she wrought this miraculous change in him? Had she been able to see beneath the surface of his anger, and find the man beneath?

The man that she, Christine, had not been strong enough to find...

The night wore on, and one word kept reverberating in her exhausted mind.

_Escape. Escape. Escape._

_# - # - # - # _

_I could not bring myself to touch Lesley, and I knew that she could sense me pulling away. Each time I thought of succumbing to her kisses, each caress that lingered, I knew her unasked question, and I was afraid to answer. She was insanely jealous of Christine, and I could not bring myself to clarify my feelings for either of them. For the first time I thought I understood how Christine had felt once upon a time, feeling affection for two men, and terrified of taking the first step with either one._

_ The revelation of Josephine's abuse nearly killed me, and Christine's devotion to her melted the anger I felt at her. She still visited Bernadette, but when I came into the room, there was always some excuse that called her away: Juliette needed this, or Josephine was undoubtedly exhausted, after what, I truly did not know. I didn't understand what was going through her mind, only that I was growing frustrated by a constant need to speak with her, though I had no idea what I wanted to say. _

_As the days grew warmer, my unease increased in the heat, sparking like a hammer to anvil, and torching my conscience into something unrecognizable. I could not stop thinking about Lesley - but I was still dreaming of Christine._

# - # - # - #

"Joshua, any of these are fine schools," Erik said wearily, looking down at the acceptance letters across the the piano. "Your parents have agreed to pay for them. Just pick one."

"But shouldn't I pick the best, Sir?" his student asked worriedly. "My father said-"

"Don't listen to your father," Erik replied, his patience wearing thin.

Of all his students, Joshua had the ability to make him want to scream the most. The young man was extremely talented, devoted to practicing, and perhaps the student most capable of succeeding musically. There was only one problem - he was as analytical as a scientist. He tried to dissect music, to wear it down to a fine tune, instead of leaving it to open in his mind and reach out from his heart.

He was _mechanical._

"Where do _you_ want to go, Joshua?" Erik asked, trying to get a read on the boy.

Joshua reached for a letter from the New England Conservatory. "I think this one would be a good one. But my father doesn't want me to move so far away."

"Joshua, every man has to leave home at some point. The Conservatory is by all accounts, a wonderful institution. You should take a train up one weekend and visit, and decide for yourself if it is where you want to go. If your father doesn't want to pay for your education, there _are_ other options."

"There are?" the boy questioned, looking hopeful.

"If you are serious about going, then you can help me the rest of the year, and by next fall you would have enough for a first semester of tuition."

Erik glanced up as a someone lightly tapped on the door, surprised to find Christine standing there.

"Am I being intrusive? I arrived early, and Bernadette isn't here," she said nervously.

"No, come in." Erik watched as she sailed into the room, looking prim and proper with that massive mane gathered into a ruthless bun. "This is Joshua, my only violin student. He's trying to decide on a music conservatory for next year. Joshua, this is Mlle. Christine Daae. She was a vocal student of mine several years ago."

Erik could tell immediately that sixteen year old Joshua had fallen in love. The boy's chest puffed out, and he showed her the letter from New England.

"I'm probably going to this one," he announced with far more confidence than he had ever displayed to Erik.

Christine gave him a wry smile, then bent her head to examine the letter. "How wonderful! You're very lucky to have had this man as your teacher. Even if he is cantankerous."

"I beg your pardon?" Erik asked stiffly. "I am not cantankerous."

"See?" Christine lifted a shoulder and smiled at Joshua. "Stubborn as well. He would yell at me for three hours, and then offer one word of praise - if I was lucky. Does he do that to you?"

"Yes ma'am!" Joshua replied eagerly, though he peeked at his scowling teacher. "Did you go onto a conservatory? Which one did you choose?"

"I didn't need to further my education," Christine answered lightly, pretending to examine another letter. "I just had to refine it a bit for the world of opera for which I was so unprepared."

"So you were a singer then?"

"Is a singer," Erik corrected automatically.

Christine's eyes lifted to his a moment with a stricken expression. "Of course," she said numbly, remembering that Erik still didn't know. "Well, I should think Bernadette will be home by now..."

"Actually, our lesson is over," Erik cut in, knowing he was about to hear one of Christine's infamous excuses. "Joshua, if you're still undecided about a school, come by next week to discuss it."

The boy hastily gathered his things then left, leaving them staring uncomfortably at one another. Christine sat down at the piano after a moment, seeing the room through Erik's eyes, and through those of his students. She began to play, and let music fill the room with sound.

"You learned to play?" Erik asked, astonished as he watched her slim fingers glide over the keys. Hesitantly he sat down beside her, drawn to her by memories, by dreams.

Christine gave a slight smile. "I learned quite a few things, actually. Juliette has been a...well...she's been quite an influence on me. I guess you could say she has taught me to seize control of my life." She leaned towards him and bumped his shoulder with her own. "What about you? What sort of things has Lesley taught you?"

She was astonished to see a blush creep across his face, and he cleared his throat. "I don't know what you mean."

As much as she longed to be able to tease him about that blush, the words would not form in her mind. Instead of feeling happy for all that he had gained, she felt jealous, and did not particularly care for the idea of Lesley teaching Erik anything. Christine returned her attention to the piano, allowing music to fill the tense silence of the room.

She watched as Erik's hand lifted to the keys, and he laid his palm on her fingers, trapping them between the coolness of the keys and his warmth.

"What places did you see after Paris?" Erik asked softly, studying her expression intently. "Why haven't you contacted us until now?"

"Really, Erik," Christine said, stalling to avoid the conversation she knew was coming. "I haven't enough time to tell you everything."

"It was but a simple question."

"Well the answer is neither simple, nor is it your business!"

"Christine-"

"No. There are things...I will take them to the grave," she said quietly. "I went to Germany and the Czech Republic, working in opera houses. Juliette took me to Sweden. That is all."

"That isn't all." Erik's stomach had hardened into a knot of worry, and the lost expression on her face made him want to shake the answer out of her. "Tell me about the man in the hotel room."

Christine blanched. "You know about that?"

"De Chagny spoke to a magistrate in Berlin. He said that you robbed someone...?"

"Yes, I did," Christine said softly. "No one found me, so...I took care of myself. I've made peace with the past, so let it go, Erik. There is no going back for me now."

Erik cradled her hand in his, and brought it to his lips. The surprise and lovely flush that stole across her face was yet another dangerous weapon in the woman's arsenal against a tempted man. How he wanted to kiss those lips, softly parted, until they were wet with his kisses and crying out his name. As if knowing his thoughts, he watched Christine struggle for breath, and he wondered if she wanted the same.

"I'm sorry...whatever happened...I'm so sorry, Christine."

"I should go...," she whispered, blinking back tears, drawing her hand back. "Bernadette is wondering where I am..."

"Of course she is."

"Erik?"

"Yes?"

"Please do not say anything to Bernadette about...about any of this. She would be distraught, and I can't see a need for her to feel any more guilt," Christine said, rising from the piano bench.

What, he wondered, would Bernadette feel guilty about? What exactly had Christine done, or been forced to do, to survive? Erik set his jaw, and gave her a measured look. "I want the truth, Christine. I want to know everything."

How could she tell them the truth? Especially Bernadette, who was still so raw with guilt that the mention of her daughter's name was enough to bring a black depressive mood to her for weeks. Erik...she could not bear the thought of admitting what she had almost done...what she _had _done. The night in that man's room, she had survived, but walking those stairs had cast such a shadow on her conscience that she never wanted anyone to know of her secret shame.

She had tried to sell her body, her innocence, for such a paltry sum of money. Even if it had been a fortune, it would not have mattered, but to have bartered such a precious thing for so little, the shame was unbearable. She wanted to forget that night, and the nights before it when she had huddled beneath bridges for shelter, stealing food, stealing clothing, whatever she could find to survive. Nor did she wish to relive that night in Prague when she was attacked and almost lost her virtue by force.

While she was proud of herself for surviving at all, she was still ashamed of what she'd had to do to achieve it.

"The truth is that I was inspired to live by wise words from someone who never gave up in the search for love," Christine replied slowly. "The truth is, that I'm glad I'm not a sniveling child any longer, but I hit a few hard curbs to get where I am today. The rest doesn't matter."

"Wait," Erik requested, catching her by the hand. "For my own peace of mind, please at least tell me - did you have to sell your body to survive?"

"No," Christine said sadly. "Just my heart. Nothing more."

Erik watched her go, no closer to understanding the puzzle of her life than he had been all those years ago.


	40. An Unmasked Truth

Yay, update night! Aren't we all excited? I'm excited because _Quiet _is reading one of my stories! ;) You know when I'll be really excited? _**Moonlight Friday!**_

* * *

Christine, her nerves still on edge from her encounter with Erik, found Bernadette in the sitting room reading a note. Erik made her feel breathless and aggravated all at once, and she thought too often of that brief moment when she had kissed him, and wondered what it would feel like now that she was older. 

She had no right – none - to even think of doing such a thing. Erik was engaged to a woman he obviously loved, and Christine knew that the best solution was for her to return to Sweden before something compromised their tenuous relationship. He deserved better than that from her. He deserved to have what he had longed for, and if she did something to ruin it for him, then she would never forgive herself.

"What is that you're reading?"

Christine nearly jumped a foot in the air, hearing Erik's voice behind her. She hadn't even heard him follow her downstairs, and yet he was less than a foot away from her. Obviously for him, some things had not changed.

Bernadette glanced up with a frown. "It's a letter from Francois and Patrice. He's decided to hire a maid to help her with the children."

Erik rolled his eyes and took a seat on the arm of her chair. "Let me guess, he wants to add another room onto his house, and I've been nominated to design it."

Wordlessly Bernadette held the note out to him, giving a wry smile as he scanned it.

"Who are Francois and Patrice?" Christine questioned. "I've heard you mention them."

"Francois is a pain in the-"

"Erik! He's not nearly half as bad as you are," Bernadette scolded. "At least he cooks and cleans. Now get off my chair before you break it."

"I paid for it," he replied mildly.

"They want us to come visit this weekend. Why don't we take Josephine? She can play with the children."

"Yes, but would she go?" Erik asked, looking at Christine. "I remember a certain trip when we brought Francois's eldest daughter home with us for the week, and_ I _had to take her home that same night because she missed her mother."

"Josephine is fourteen, not six, and she needs to meet new people. The child is far too withdrawn."

Erik had not told Bernadette that his father had hurt her – but she had easily guessed. Too many years at the Populaire instructing young girls from different backgrounds had given her sharp instincts about such things.

"Perhaps just a day trip," he tried.

"Erik, it takes three hours to get there in a carriage. I hate just going for the day," Bernadette protested. "If you're worried about Josephine, then Christine can come along."

"No!"

They both turned to look at Christine with surprise, and she realized it had come out far too harshly. But there was no possible way she could go with Erik anywhere. The idea made her nervous, given her recent thoughts of him. He was engaged, and she knew very well that his fiancée would not particularly like the idea of them going away together. If she were Lesley Ann, then she would be guarding him with knives.

"I mean...I could not leave Juliette," Christine stammered. "It would be rude of me, and I...I just couldn't."

"Your friend can take care of herself. It's not as if she couldn't come. Patrice and Francois would be more than happy to make room for her," Erik said slowly.

"She wouldn't do well in this heat. We really should be making plans to return home, which means Josephine is going to have to become dependent on you, Bernadette." She looked at Erik then added, "And on Lesley Ann, of course."

Erik didn't respond, and Christine allowed her heart to quiet before it exploded. But when she broached the subject with Josephine, the girl refused to go without either Christine or Juliette, and even though Bernadette argued until she turned blue in the face, Josephine still would not budge. On Friday morning Christine and Josephine took a carriage to Bernadette's to meet them, and Christine almost ordered the driver to turn around at the picture of Hell that greeted her.

Standing beside Erik was his bride to be, Lesley Ann, and it seemed that she would be joining them on their trip.

# - # - # - #

* * *

Lesley sat directly across from Christine, watching as the younger woman traced the edges of Josephine's eyebrows with the tip of her finger, then touched the end of her nose. The girl lay her head against Christine's shoulder, a too somber expression on her face for one so young. 

She wished fervently that she could speak French, but the small amount that Erik had taught her undoubtedly would make her seem ignorant to an opera singer who spoke a half dozen languages. Josephine closed her eyes, then opened them again, staring at Christine in pure adulation. The girl was starved for attention, that much was obvious. She shied away from Erik and any other males who spoke to her, and often was seen shouting rather than behaving pleasantly.

If Josephine's golden eyes had not given Lesley an indication of blood, then her temper would have. She was like Erik in many regards.

"Christine, where will you be performing next?" Bernadette asked her.

Lesley watched as the singer grew still, and glanced toward the window in the front of the carriage where Erik was sitting with the driver.

"I don't know. I've taken a leave of absence," Christine answered.

"But aren't you afraid of being replaced?"

A tight smile crossed Christine's lips. "No, not anymore," she replied vaguely.

'_Cocky witch'_, Lesley thought to herself, and had difficulty repressing a snort.

"Bernadette, I...can't...I've lost..." Christine pressed a hand over her eyes, and made a weary sound. "I can't sing anymore. I've ruined my voice, and I don't think it will ever return."

"Oh, my child," Bernadette whispered. "Does Erik know?"

Lesley stiffened against the seat, unable to take in stride the apparent connection that Christine still had with her fiancé.

"_I'm_ not telling him. I have no wish to be yelled at, and it isn't his concern in any case. There's nothing he could do. There's no doctor who can help me, no miracle cure, and no amount of rest has helped me so far. My career is over," Christine said flatly.

"So what will you do now?" Lesley asked boldly. "Will you be staying in Savannah?"

Christine met her gaze, then glanced down at Josephine. "For a time," she replied, refusing to take the bait. "I'll be leaving before summer is over."

"Do you have to go?" Josephine whispered. "Does Juliette?"

"Yes, sweetheart. Juliette may stay if she wishes, but I'll be going."

"Can I go with you?"

"Josephine..."

"Come sit by me, my dear," Bernadette said brightly, pulling Josephine across the seat. "Why, you'll be so busy with school, you won't even miss Christine! Your cousin Erik is going to hire a tutor for you, a Miss Somerset, I believe. He wrote her last week asking her to come down and meet you before this fall. And when Patrice sees you, she's going to want to take you into New York with her and the rest of her girls. You're going to love it here. Just wait and see."

Lesley listened to the entire conversation, in French no less, but could gather the exchange by the look of utter dread in Josephine's eyes, and the sadness in Christine's. Not for the first time did she feel a premonition of what was sure to come.

# - # - # - #

* * *

Francois took one look at Erik's entourage, and burst out laughing once they had made it to the stables. It was not Bernadette he laughed at, nor the girl who would undoubtedly cause problems for his friend at some point. It was the way Erik's fiancée had circled Christine Daae as if she wished to take a broom to her. 

"It is _not_ funny," Erik said tersely.

"Oh yes it is. This definitely qualifies for a laugh or two. My God, Erik! What were you thinking, bringing both of them here?" Francois pressed a hand to his chest, gasping for air. "Don't misunderstand me, they are more than welcome, but I believe this weekend shall be interesting, indeed!"

"I had no choice. Josephine would not come without Christine, and once Lesley caught wind of it, there was no way that I could not invite her as well. It would have looked unseemly."

"Unseemly? Yes. Wise? I think I would have to agree with you there!" Francois roared, nearly doubling over again.

"I'm pleased that you find this so amusing," Erik snapped, "because I'm losing my damned mind all over again because of _her_."

Somehow Francois managed to compose himself, and gave his friend a look of utter sympathy. Erik did indeed look half crazed, and Francois was quite disappointed to see the mask again. Removing it had been a hard decision for Erik to make, and one Francois thought was rather symbolic.

Ah, but who was he to philosophize? Erik had always done whatever he pleased, although he'd showed considerable improvement in the last year or two. Perhaps around the time a certain woman, Lesley, entered his life.

"She's just a woman, Erik, like any other," Francois said, earning a contemptuous glance. "Well, she is. You need to let go of the past, my friend. I would wager you've still got that blasted ring hanging around your neck like a yoke."

Absently Erik touched it through his shirt, and his heart ached to even think of getting rid of it. Which was exactly what Francois announced that he should do.

"Maybe," Erik admitted. "Lesley finally knows what it means. She doesn't know I still wear it."

"Erik, she's a woman. Of course she knows. She just hasn't said anything to you, because her father has browbeaten her so often that she doesn't think you'll listen."

Erik looked startled for a moment, then rubbed a hand across his jaw. "I never thought of that. She argues with me all the time. Surely she isn't frightened of me?"

"It isn't a matter of fear, Erik. Women are told their place, especially in this country, and they stay in them. It's just the way of things. Your Christine is a perfect example."

"Christine? How?"

"She was orphaned at a young age, and sent to live with strangers. Out of _gratitude_, and perhaps a sense of fear that she would be abandoned if she didn't do as she was told, she became a thing that you could order around, that Bernadette could command. Even de Chagny had a hold on her. I know. I grew up on the streets of Paris, and the occasional times someone took me in and fed me, I would have done anything to stay. Once I was hungry enough, I started stealing whatever I could get my hands on." Francois shrugged. "Then I found someone who was able to use a young boy like me to help him break into houses. I was small enough to fit through a chimney if need be."

"A chimney?" Erik repeated, eying the girth his friend had acquired over the last few years. He could scarcely remember what Francois had looked like before the war, though they had all probably been thin enough to have fit through a chimney pipe.

"A hint: grease yourself with pig fat. It makes for a smoother journey." Francois tapped Erik's chest with a finger. "Get rid of that ring, Erik. If you don't, you're going to wind up explaining why you still wear it after you're married, and trust me, you don't want to make her madder than she already is."

_# - # - # - #_

* * *

_His friends were delightful, and watching Erik with their children was quite the surreal experience. Oh, he was not so playful. Nothing like my father, although a bit how I imagined Roman might have been before he was beleaguered with all those children. He was more patient than I expected, but what ripped into my heart were the questions about the mask. _

_It was later that Bernadette told me something I never would have imagined in a thousand years. After reading of his agony, the embarrassment, the shame over his face, I could not quite believe that Erik had discarded his mask after leaving Paris. _

_I then realized something else, something that made me want to board a ship and sail as far from him as I possibly could. Because I had done this to him, I had caused him to feel his painful past, to remember the reason why he was not normal. Erik had put the mask back on the day that I arrived. Twice I had seen him with it off, once with Lesley, and once near the church. In this unbearable heat, he shielded himself from my eyes, and I knew then that I had not been forgiven. _

_I had to make things right. I had never apologized, never told him a thing. There was much I knew that I had to keep from him, because he did not deserve to be plunged further into doubt. He did not need to feel as I did - wild, heartsick, devastated beyond mere words._

_# - # - # - #_

* * *

By some uncommon miracle, they all were squeezed into one house together. With four bedrooms, it was an incredibly tight fit, but they managed well despite the tension. Bernadette and Lesley shared a room; Josephine and Christine had another. Erik was alone, and all of the Paumard children were with their parents, where Patrice confided, they usually were in any case. 

As Christine expected, Josephine would have nothing to do with the younger children, although by the end of the first day one of them had managed to crawl into her lap, and the girl made no attempt to rid herself of the drooling toddler. Erik and Lesley disappeared early the next morning, and Patrice filled Christine with stories of their coming to Savannah, before deciding they would rather live near the coast and remember France. Erik had repaired the original house, then added to it gradually over the years, giving them all room to grow.

"And," Patrice added with a laugh, "at the rate we're going, he'll be building on again next year."

Christine smiled wistfully at the dark haired beauty with one daughter on each arm. "It must be nice, having a family of your own."

"Don't you want to get married, Christine?" Bernadette asked softly. "Hasn't there been anyone...?"

"Oh, I've been asked," Christine replied darkly. "No, I don't think I will ever marry. I've seen what trying to love can do to a person, twisting them. Juliette's life has shown me this."

"Love should not be feared," Patrice said, jostling her children slightly. "There are times when I think, _'What if I just pushed him at the top of the stairs?'_ but I know that I would miss my Francois. He's taken care of me all these years, and I do the same for him."

Bernadette gave a wistful smile. "On my wedding night, my husband was so drunk that I hit him with a buggy whip. He never felt a thing. I thought about sewing him in the bedsheets and beating the stuffing out of him. He was so fat, it would have taken me three days just to get down one side of the bed."

Christine stared at them both, wondering if they were funning her. "Why in the world did you get married then?"

"Love," Patrice declared.

"I was in the family way," Bernadette said delicately. "Had I known that such a pig was chasing me, I would have kept the gate closed."

"Bernadette!" Christine exclaimed, her face heating immensely. "There are certain things I think that are best kept to yourself!"

"Come, Christine. You're an opera singer," Patrice said coyly. "You look as if..."

"Christine, you've never...?" Bernadette asked, her eyes widening. "But I thought...oh. _Oh!_"

"It's not as if you're sharing some great secret," Christine snapped, blushing even more. "I know how a horse eats an apple, and it can't be any more fascinating than sex with a man!"

"Ahem..."

They all spun around quickly, Bernadette and Patrice bursting out laughing as Francois stood in the doorway with six year old Elise.

"Ladies," he said, quickly passing off his daughter to Bernadette. "If you'll excuse me, I believe I will find...somewhere else to go. Please remember there are children present in your discussion."

Christine closed her eyes in she relief. For a moment, she had been horrified it was Erik. Or worse – Lesley.

How pathetic would he find it, if he knew the truth? One thing was obvious from watching him around Lesley, and seeing how his fiancée returned his glances. Erik had discovered the joys of the flesh.

Christine stood, coming to a sudden decision.

"If you'll excuse me. I need to find Erik. Do you know where he is?"

It was time.

Time to say goodbye.

* * *

I must confess when writing this line: ""There are times when I think, _'What if I just pushed him at the top of the stairs?'_ ", I had a specific reader in mind who I thought would get a kick out of it. Barb, that one was for you. :) How lucky I am that you are reading! 

Many thanks to my beta, who I hope is enjoying the preview of a potential_ brand new Erik_, and not frowning in dismay...

Added later: Sorry, didn't mean to yank that out from under you like that. I wanted to promote a book by Clever Lass AKA An Wallace called_ Letters to Erik_. It was previously posted on the site, and now she has pubished it through Amazon. I will be updating my homepage to include a link on how you can buy the book. No, I haven't read it, but my beta recommended it, and it sounds great. Help a fellow FF author out and go buy it!


	41. The Eye Revealed

Christine was relieved to see Lesley striding up to the house just as she was leaving to find Erik. They did not bother exchanging pleasantries, but walked past each other as if they were strangers. Christine found Francois behind the house, sitting in the sunshine away from the females who had taken over his house. He glanced up from the intent task of tearing a blade of grass into strips, and smiled nervously.

"Mademoiselle Daae," he greeted. "I hope you have not come to apologize. My wife has said far worse things during childbirth."

"No, no. Actually, I would appreciate it if you could help me find Erik. I've something to say to him."

Francois nodded as if what she said made perfect sense, then jerked a thumb behind him. "He's down at the beach. The man has an affinity for water. There's a path, just be careful where you step, mademoiselle."

"Thank you," Christine said, and swept past him.

"He's a real mermaid," Francois called after her. "You can tell him I said so!"

Christine couldn't help but chuckle as she walked down toward the ocean, knowing that she would rather tell Erik she was still a virgin than that Francois had called him a mermaid.

She found him sitting on an outcropping of rocks a few feet from shore, with waves splashing up around him. Facing the ocean, she could again see that he wasn't wearing the mask. Her throat tightened as she walked towards him. The wind was high, and the water looked terrifying. Even now, years after her plunge into the river, did she hate water where she could not see the bottom.

"Erik!" she yelled against the wind.

Before he even turned she watched as he placed the mask on. They stared at each other a moment, then he motioned for her to join him.

She returned the gesture, and making it look far too easy, he leapt from rock to rock, until his booted feet were planted in the sand.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, anxiously glancing back towards the house.

"No. Yes." Christine dropped her gaze. "I need to tell you something."

"What is it, Christine?" Erik asked warily.

After Lesley had left, he had stayed behind, wanting to be alone, to think, to exorcise Christine from his mind. Several times he had found the ring in his hand, but not enough strength to do as Francois suggested. And he had seen in Lesley's eyes a pain that he knew well. There was nothing he could do to stop it, unless he wished to rip his own heart out and destroy his last possession of Christine's.

"I wanted to tell you, that once we return to Savannah, I will be going home. I just wanted you to know that, and...," Christine stopped, unable to continue.

"Why?" he asked shortly. "I was under the impression you would be staying until this fall."

"For your wedding?" Christine shook her head. "No. I have obligations at home."

"Such as? Perhaps a next performance?" Erik prompted, ice in his tone. "Because I've been informed that you are in fact, retired."

"Erik..."

"Would you care to explain why?"

"No. No, I would not," she shot back. "That isn't why I am returning."

"Then why are you? Josephine needs you, and so does Bernadette."

_You don't._

The words swam in her mind, and she moved away from him toward the base of a bluff. The wind was calmer there, not stinging her eyes or making her ears roar. She turned back to face him, slowly mustering the courage to tell him the truth.

"This won't work any longer, Erik. I can't stay because I've caused trouble since I've been here. We both know why. If I had known about Lesley, I never would have come."

Erik studied her a long moment, seeing the way she was shaking. Hearing the tremble of her voice. "Would it have made a difference, if I were not engaged?" he asked quietly.

"I've caused trouble for you," she whispered, staring out at the shimmering water. "I've hurt you again. I have never apologized for the mistakes I made in the past." Hesitantly she looked at him, blinded by tears. "I've never said how pr-proud I was of you - that you were my Angel. My teacher."

Christine covered her mouth and turned away, the fear of exposing her feelings to him increasing by the moment. Erik's arms came around her suddenly, and he forced her back around, pressing her face against his chest. Her heart raced. The world had stopped spinning for all she knew or cared, and the only sound that she could hear were his ragged breaths.

"Please forgive me," she sobbed earnestly.

"I forgave you long ago, Christine. I...I..." Erik closed his eyes, and simply held her. The softest strands of hair caressed the palm of his hand. She smelled of roses...God, he had been unable to inhale that scent for years. It caused an exquisite pain, a million memories of her and his failed attempt to win her love. "I've missed you." _My love. My precious love._

She cried the pain of a thousand lonely nights, of needing his voice, his guidance, his devotion. His love, oh yes, how she had missed that as well. The love of a friend, a teacher, a man. She cried for all the moments they had lost, and for the others they would never share.

Slowly Christine disengaged herself from Erik, and sat down in the sand, looping her arms over her knees. He dropped down beside her, and they each stared out at the ocean for uncounted minutes.

"You didn't hurt me when you came here," he finally said, his voice rough. "I wanted to see you, Christine, for years, I have. I assumed...I assumed for a time that you had married de Chagny. Bernadette returned to France after the war. He was gone."

"Erik, Bernadette told me something yesterday." Christine turned to look at him, this time allowing her gaze to settle directly on the mask. "She said that when you left Paris, the people on the ship were staring at you, and you decided..."

"What of it?" Erik asked sharply.

"You decided you no longer needed to hide from the world," she finished bluntly. "Now tell me again that I haven't hurt you, because I'm under the impression that your face has been seen by anyone in Savannah who has cared to look."

"It doesn't matter," he muttered.

Christine knew she had embarrassed him, and no longer would he look at her, but she needed to make him see why the best thing for both of them was for her to return home. "Erik, I saw you the day I brought Josephine to meet you, standing by the river with Lesley. She had never seen your mask, had she?" Erik didn't answer, steadily withdrawing into himself. Cautiously she took his hand, hoping he would look at her. "I want you to be so happy, Erik. I want you to marry her, and love her, because you deserve someone like Lesley. I need to leave, because I've made you feel as if you needed-"

"I don't want you to go," Erik blurted out, rocking slightly in the sand. "Please, Christine. Please don't leave just yet."

Her mouth parted in surprise at the desolation in his eyes, and she curled her hand tighter around his. "Erik, it's for the best. You know that it is."

"No," he disagreed hoarsely. "I'm not asking for anything. Just more time. Please, consider it."

"You don't know what you're saying," she whispered._ 'You don't know what you're asking'_, she added silently. "Your fiancée-"

"I'm not asking for anything," he repeated with a sharp glance. "I wish to get to know you. Bernadette needs you. Josephine needs you. Did you not say that you wished to be friends?"

She stared at him in dismay, her own words coming back to haunt her. _Oh no_, she wanted to say. _You and I could never be friends. Or perhaps not just friends._

"Erik, promise me. Promise me that I am not compromising your wedding. Promise me that I have not hurt you by coming here. Because if I am..."

Slowly he reached behind his head, and carefully slid an elastic band free from his hair. With steady eyes he looked at her, then removed the mask.

"A show of good faith, Christine," he said quietly. "I can live without this. I don't want to, but I can. Forget about what happened the last year in the Populaire." He brought her hand to his mouth, thick eyelashes drifting down on one red, uneven cheek and one smooth, unblemished one. "We shared more than heartache. Much, much more. Is that all that you care to remember?"

"No," Christine softly replied. "I remember everything."

"As do I."

His gaze softened, and he drew her into his arms, a peace settling over them for the very first time. Light from the sky faded to an ember glow, and darkness grew nearer still. Everyone would be wondering what had become of them, but neither one could draw away.

Christine was nearly dozing in his arms, lulled by the sound of his breathing and the waves breaking over rocks, then she felt his face against her hair.

"We should return, before someone comes searching for us," she whispered.

"I know," he replied, unmoving.

She braced her hands against his biceps and pushed away, already missing his warmth. "I think we are already in hot water, Erik. We really should go."

"Why do you do that to your hair?" he asked suddenly, his expression one of distaste. "I hate it."

"You hate my hair?" Christine touched it self consciously. "But why?"

"It doesn't suit you." Erik nearly reached for it, but caught himself. They would most certainly be in trouble if they returned with sand all across their clothes, and her hair down about her waist.

Just the thought of it made his heart race harder.

"Well I'm sorry, but I look like an unkempt ruffian with all those curls. Besides, Carlos would be furious if I ever changed it."

His eyes flashed quite suddenly. "Who the hell is Carlos?"

"Carlos is the beast of a man who made me a woman." Erik's mouth snapped shut with a scowl. "He also happens to be nearing eighty. And he was Juliette's husband's lover," Christine added with smirk.

"Her husband's..." Understanding dawned at once. "He's the nancy boy de Chagny's valet was blabbering about."

"I detest that term," Christine replied with a frown. "Carlos and Alberto were very dear to me. Alberto a little more than Carlos, but still..."

"So you were never in any danger?"

"Are you so determined to drag it out of me, then? Erik, it's late. You ought to be at the house with your_ fiancée_, and I need to be with Josephine."

Deciding to let it go for the moment, Erik helped Christine to her feet.

"Shall we face the firing squad together?" he asked softly.

"Yes, let's," Christine replied, taking his hand.

For the walk back to the Paumard resident, at least, everything was perfect.

# - # - # - #

* * *

Constance tossed the Daae girl's hotel room in a matter of minutes, then the other two rooms rented under her name without breaking a sweat. She had all the evidence that she needed to know the diamond was likely gone forever. 

The damned stuffed rabbit that her idiot brother had failed to find before the couple left Antwerp was lying behind a chair, it's stuffing ripped from the body. It was enough to make her feel like committing murder, and yet she knew that her dear brother would be the one to explode the most.

Constance slipped unnoticed from the room to find Gordon. It was with great relief when on her way out, she spied the heavyset Juliette Dvorak in the hotel dining room, eating her dear, sweet heart out.

She had one final chance to find that diamond without her brother mucking things up, and she would have to take it - soon.

* * *

# - # - # - #

When Erik and Christine returned from the beach, Francois was smoking a cigar on the front porch. He indicated to Erik how much trouble he was in, without going into detail, by simply saying, "Lesley has a headache, and she has retired for the night."

Clueless, Erik merely stared at him.

"Erik, she has a headache," Christine said, giving him a push. "Surely you know what that means."

"My reasoning skills would indicate to me that she does indeed, have a headache."

"You are her headache at the moment," Francois said charitably. "I would suggest you take her a glass of wine and a headache powder. Perhaps..."

"Francois..."

"If you had the sense God gave a maggot, you'd be up there right now," Francois added. "Forgive me, Mademoiselle Daae, but it is in Erik's best interests if he complies with the rules of courtship."

"We were simply talking," Erik retorted.

Francois gave him an even smile. "I know. I couldn't really picture you as the sort to frolic in the sand. To ravish a woman on a sunset beach. To lie naked beneath..."

"Excuse me," Christine whispered, mortified, then raced into the house. How would she ever be able to look his fiancée in the eyes again? True, they had not specifically done anything wrong, but that was not going to matter to an angry woman.

And if Lesley knew the intimacy they had shared, even without a kiss, then surely she would be hurt.

Bernadette was waiting for her in her room when Christine stepped through the door, flustered beyond measure.

"You decided to return," Bernadette stated.

"We were simply talking," Christine said, echoing Erik's words verbatim.

"Simply talking? For three hours, and with sand in your dress...?"

"Bernadette, what did I tell you just before I left this house?" Christine asked quietly. "I would never lie to you. Erik and I were talking. I told him that as soon as we arrived in Savannah, I would be leaving."

Instead of the gasp of dismay, or a vehement protest, Bernadette nodded just once.

"Perhaps it is for the best, Christine. I love you, my dear, but maybe you can visit once Erik has settled down some. Once he's married to Lesley..."

"He asked me to stay," Christine said, turning away to unbutton her dress. "I'm sorry that you feel that way, Bernadette. This isn't easy for me either."

"Christine, I just want him to be happy. Can't you understand what it has been like for _me_ all these years?" Bernadette asked desolately. "I've watched him struggle with what his parents put him through, with his own demons chasing him day after day, night after night. If you could have seen the changes in him since he's been engaged, I know you would agree. He's not the same man."

It felt as if her heart was trapped in ice, because she knew that Bernadette was right. The right thing was for her to leave, and instead she had all but promised to stay. He'd taken the mask off for her, held her, and she was going to stay even knowing the feelings that she felt for him were wrong.

* * *

Erik's feet seemed heavy as he climbed the stairs to the room Lesley shared with Bernadette. Erik could hardly explain his absence during the evening, unless he wished to admit that Christine had come to say goodbye, and he had all but begged her to stay. He'd come so close to kissing her, to pressing her down against the sand and telling her what was in his heart, but knew it was wrong. He had been intimate with Lesley for two years, and she deserved to be honored in marriage. It cut deeply into his heart, knowing that his feelings for Christine remained so strong, yet having the turmoil of caring for Lesley on an entirely different level. 

His feelings for Lesley were less intense. They were safe. He was slightly terrified now of getting married, but it was not the bone shattering terror that Christine wrought in him.

_"Perhaps it is for the best, Christine. I love you, my dear, but maybe you can visit once Erik has settled down some. Once he's married to Lesley..."_

Erik paused outside Lesley's door, listening to Christine's conversation with Bernadette. Christine's reply was muffled, but Bernadette launched into a speech about the miraculous changes he had made since leaving Paris.

Erik scowled at the door. Had he changed? He certainly didn't feel different, other than he was now accustomed to talking to people a great deal more than ever. But it wasn't as if were particularly socially adept. He avoided crowds, and despised it when the ladies from town descended on his house to have tea with "dear old Bernie".

_"I'll stay until I'm certain Josephine is comfortable here. Then I'll leave,"_ was Christine's reply.

_"So you won't be staying for the wedding?"_

Erik held his breath, and behind him the door to Lesley's room opened. She too had been listening, and was waiting for the answer.

_"No. I'll be gone before then."_

Erik turned to face his fiancée. Her eyes were red and swollen, her nose as well. She looked vulnerable, and he cursed himself for his thoughtlessness. She deserved far better than what he had given her the last few weeks. The distance between them had grown taut, like a violin string ready to snap at the slightest touch from a bow.

"You took the mask off," Lesley said hollowly. "Did you do that for her?"

"Would you come outside with me?"

Lesley just stared at him, a woman unwilling to be placated.

"The walls are thin," he reminded her. "Unless you really do have a headache..."

He remembered suddenly the glass of wine in his hand, and held it out to her. She eyed it with suspicion, and shook her head. "I had too much at dinner. It's the reason for my headache."

He set the glass of wine on a table outside the door, and pushed his way into the room. "Close the door a moment."

"This is improper, Erik," she whispered, trying to shoo him back outside. "You can't be in here. What if Bernadette comes?"

With a quirk of his lips, he hooked the band of the mask on the doorknob, then shut it. Turning to face Lesley, he could see that she was not amused by his actions. In fact, she was downright furious.

"How dare you? How dare you?" she seethed. "Was this why you did not tell me of your plans to come here with her? Am I in your way?"

"It is not what you think."_ Liar. _"I told you that I wished to make peace with her," he said quietly. "_Nothing_ happened."

_'Liar liar,'_ his conscience screamed._'You wanted something to happen, and it would have, if you had not been engaged.'_

"You humiliated me in front of your friends, in front of Bernadette and Josephine," Lesley continued, keeping her voice in a low, vicious tone. "How could you do that to me, Erik? Do you have any idea what I've been thinking all evening? Do you?"

"Yes, and I'm telling you that I did not betray you."

She turned from him and covered her face, hating the woman across the hall with an intensity that frightened her. Lesley caught her reflection in the mirror, one that she had stared at after coming up from dinner. She stared at her eyes, an uninteresting shade of hazel, her nose which was far too big. In another ten years she would have her father's frame, thick boned but not fat, and most likely have his sagging jowls and gout as well, she thought miserably. Christine Daae was perfect. Everything about her was perfect. She was perfect for Erik...except...

"Do you really want her to rip your heart out again?" Lesley asked, whirling back around. "That's what she will do, Erik. She has no regard for the life you built here. She's come to stir up trouble, and when she's done, she'll leave."

"Lesley...," Erik began to protest, but she cut him off with a little hiss of frustration.

"I know that she's already in your head. Erik, I am begging you not to let her come between us," Lesley cried, turning into his arms. "Don't you care for me at all?"

"You know that I do, Lesley Ann," Erik told her, the words coming out forcefully now in the face of her heartbreak. And it was with great relief to know that he meant them, and that when she raised her lips to his, he could feel something for her still. "Lesley, I do care for you. Very much."

Or perhaps it was more terrifying, because he had such deep feelings for Christine too.

Across the hall, Christine heard them as well. In a moment of surprising emotion, Josephine rolled across the bed and flung her arm about Christine's waist, holding her as she lay on the verge of tears.

Outside the hall Bernadette stared down at the Phantom's mask hanging from the doorknob, and with a smile, withdrew down the stairs for a cup of tea.

* * *

Erik rubbed his face in exhaustion as he entered the kitchen, and found Bernadette slumped over the table snoring. He sat across from her and felt the still hot kettle, then poured himself some tea with a generous helping of honey. As his spoon clinked a little too loudly over the rim of his cup, she jerked awake, nearly falling from her chair. 

"Comfortable?" he asked, smiling as she passed a hand through her hair.

"What time is it?"

"Not quite ten."

"How is Lesley?" Bernadette stretched, enjoying a yawn big enough to crack the joints in her shoulders. "You really shouldn't have been in there with her alone. If her father found out..."

"Bernadette," Erik warned softly.

"Someone around here needs to be thinking clearly," she replied owlishly. "You certainly are not."

"When did everyone assume I had become such a Lothario?" Erik gave her a measured look. "Bernadette, I waited until I was thirty three before a woman ever looked at me. Do you honestly believe I would take Lesley's affection for granted? Do you think I have no self control?"

Bernadette leaned across the table and took his hand. "Erik, what are you going to do?"

"The right thing," he said softly. "I'm going to marry Lesley."

She glanced around then whispered, "Is it what you want?"

_I don't have a choice._

Selfish words, which he would not give a voice to. Lesley did not deserve them, and he did care about her - enough to turn his back on Christine. He would honor his marriage vows no matter what his feelings for Christine.

"Of course it is," Erik replied carefully. "She's loyal, beautiful, and she loves me. She will make a wonderful wife."

"Yes," Bernadette agreed, "I think that she will."

His hand trembled beneath hers, the only sign of his uncertainty, and immediately he made a fist, stifling the movement.

"You shouldn't have asked Christine to stay," she whispered across the table. "You're setting yourself up for disaster. What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking of Josephine. Of you," he replied defensively.

"And yourself," Bernadette added.

Erik didn't even try to deny it, merely nodded. "It's impossible for her to become friends with us, isn't it?"

"Well, it is now. You couldn't have handled this with less grace if you tried. You made an ass of yourself this evening. I hope you apologized to Lesley for it."

With a start, he realized that he had not. He pushed back his chair, but Bernadette clamped down on his arm.

"Sit down. I'm not about to let you back up there again," she scolded. "I shouldn't have allowed you to stay earlier."

"I haven't touched her in weeks," Erik grumbled.

"Since Christine arrived?" His dropped gaze confirmed it, and Bernadette felt a little tension build in her shoulders. "Erik, please don't do anything foolish, with either of them. The best thing would be for you to stay as far from Christine as you possibly can. If you've made peace with her, then just let her go."

As Erik lifted tortured eyes up to hers, Bernadette again saw that miserable soul beneath the theater, the one who had risked everything for love, and was willing to do it yet again. Only his honor held him back this time, something he had cast aside once before for Christine. Something she prayed that he would not do again.

* * *

Francois and Patrice crept out to the front porch just before dawn, their hands latched together in mutual understanding to be silent. The birds weren't even chirping yet, and a cool breeze blew in from the ocean, carrying with it the scent of saltwater and a promise of rain. There wasn't a sound anywhere, and with a relaxed breath, they plopped down on the bench, content with each other's company in the total silence. 

It lasted approximately three minutes.

"Mother May I!" Elise screeched as she tore down the stairs then out through the front door. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

"Give that back, you little brat!" came a thundering reply.

Just as quickly, Erik's cousin was out the door and across the yard, chasing their daughter around and around in circles, yelling at the top of her lungs.

Francois peered down at his wife, but her eyes were closed. She could not have possibly been sleeping, which meant that she was leaving him to deal with this early morning fiasco.

"He's your friend," Patrice said beneath her breath when he began to grumble.

"But they're _girls_," Francois replied woefully.

Getting to his feet, he stepped out into the circle of screaming girls, which now numbered in three as his second eldest daughter had joined in, thinking it some merry game.

"Children!"

"Give it back! Give it back, it's mine!" Josephine shouted.

Elise circled closer to her father, and Josephine suddenly changed direction. Francois stopped her from tackling his daughter just in time, but when he put his arms around Josephine, the girl inhaled sharply and began to scream at an ear splitting pitch.

Abruptly, he let her go.

"What is going on out here?" Bernadette demanded, flying out of the house in her dressing gown and a wrapper. "Josephine, what on earth!"

Sobbing, the girl rushed past her into the house, leaving three adults rather mystified by the events. Francois turned to Elise, who was pouting.

"What have you got there, daughter?" he asked.

"I just wanted to look at it," Elise said solemnly. "It's a pretty bauble."

"Then you should have asked."

"Yes, Papa."

"Now return it to her, would you? And apologize." Francois glanced down at his daughter's hand, and caught the flash of blue violet clenched in her little fist. Before she could scamper away, he took it from her, and held it to the light. "What in the..."

The unforgettable instincts of a thief seized him, and his mouth went dry. It was remarkable how real it seemed, and yet he could not possibly have been holding what he _thought_ he was holding.

"Christine, she wouldn't give it back!" Josephine said indignantly.

"Alright, alright," Christine said breathlessly, as she was dragged half across the lawn. "Please, calm yourself."

Francois glanced up to see the wild eyed girl staring determinedly at her 'bauble'. Hastily he passed it back to Elise, and pushed his daughter forward. Elise gave it to Josephine, but before she could mumble her apology, the girl turned and ran back into the house.

"I apologize for the ruckus, Mademoiselle. My daughter, she takes after me," Francois said sheepishly. "She cannot resist a pretty thing to stick in her pocket."

"Ah, ah." Patrice glared at him from the porch. "My daughter is not like you, not even a little bit! And if I find out you're still sticking pretty things in your pocket, I'll castrate you my dear husband!"

Blushing, Christine turned back to the house, knowing she probably looked like the walking dead. With little sleep anyway, she had risen an hour earlier and dressed, even watched with interest as the eldest Paumard sneaked over to Josephine's side and fiddled with something beneath the covers. In the next moment the chase had ensued, leaving Christine to hurriedly throw on her shoes.

"Good morning, Christine."

She glanced up quickly, seeing Erik standing at the top of the stairs with Lesley. "Good morning," she returned awkwardly. "Your cousin has quite a set of lungs on her."

"Yes, I heard."

Christine wished meeting Lesley could have been as easy as when she had met Raoul's wife. If only the feelings for Erik were as subdued as the ones she had for Raoul, then she would have already gone back to Sweden. Instead of taking the coward's way out, as she might have done in the past, Christine reached out and briefly touched Lesley's arm.

"I apologize if my actions last night were inappropriate. I assure you, I know how much Erik cares for you, and I want him to be happy." Christine met Erik's surprised eyes, then looked back at Lesley, who was staring at the ground. "I don't mean to be a pain. Erik, Meg and Bernadette were the only family that I had. I've m-missed them all. Especially Meg...," she trailed off, unable to say more. She had no idea what Erik had told Lesley, although from the woman's obvious dislike, it appeared that he had confided everything to her. It made it all the more painful, knowing that he trusted her enough to share such unhappy memories, but she was glad that he had found a measure of peace in his life.

And he deserved it, and with this woman.

"Pardon me, I need to find Josephine," Christine murmured, stepping around them.

"Thank you, Christine," Lesley said quickly.

Christine steeled her nerves, inclined her head, and then walked into the house before she betrayed the inner turmoil that raged inside.

* * *

Hello all. This was 2 chapters as they seemed fairly short separate. I just wanted to say I appreciate all the kind reviews. I enjoy reading them as much as you are enjoying the story! Honestly! On that note, I just want to try and say nicely that even if you aren't an EC shipper (and I'm not saying this is EC...and I'm not saying that it isn't), I hope you will give _my_ character of Christine a chance. I worked very hard to make her mature and grown up, and there aren't many instances when I believe that she could ever deserve Erik's love when using this ALW world after the way she betrayed him. 

You'd never guess it (would you?) but I really get a kick out of making an unlikable character one that you fall in love with. Think about it (for those who have read my stories)...Raoul in Beyond the Winter Garden, Zachery in that same story, Dominick Blackmore...hmmm...who else? Erik's sister Lily in Under the Gypsy Sky (now that was hard, especially after I made her such a bad, spiteful wench in UFS. Mirela and Rand...(I probably made too many nice characters in that story, lol.). I even find that most of you don't like Lesley, but it was my intention to make her someone you were on the fence about up until the end. I hope I did a good job with her. And I hope you will like Christine, no matter who she ends up. I created her, so I know what is going on in her mind. There is no ulterior motive here. She really is torn between her heart and doing what she perceives as the right thing.

What would you do, given that choice?

Stepping off soapbox...


	42. Two Broken Circles

Wow! 21 reviews last chapter! You guys deserve a treat!

* * *

On Lesley's request, Erik borrowed a horse from Francois with the promise to return him in a day or so, and he and Lesley rode out a half hour later than the carriage with Christine, Bernadette, and Josephine. Lesley wrapped her arms around Erik's waist, sitting sideways on the horse's rump, and they ambled back to Savannah at a pace that took nearly five hours instead of three. By the end of the trip, neither one of them were in a particularly good mood, and Erik dropped her off at her home without much fanfare, only a promise to deliver her luggage.

He had to ride through the middle of Savannah to return home, and without really questioning why, rode by the hotel where Christine was staying. If he'd had an inkling of the drama that he would be placing himself in, with utmost certainty he would have gone a more traditional route.

There Christine stood, outside the hotel, shouting in French at some poor, flustered clerk. Christine saw Erik, pointed, and began to shout at him as well.

"Erik, come talk to this incompetent fool! I can't reason with him!"

Resigned, Erik slid from the horse and walked toward them. The carriage that had conveyed them to the Paumard's was parked out front, but there were significantly more trunks sitting on the ground beside it than had been taken with them. In his hands, the clerk held onto a hat case, which Christine was trying to wrest from him.

"I. Am. Not. Paying. You. Anything!" She gave the case one last jerk just as the man released it, and she went flying backward onto her bottom.

"Mademoiselle," Erik said formally, helping her to her feet. "What is wrong?"

"Someone broke into my hotel room," she huffed, "and this buffoon will not give me my belongings until I pay him for the rest of the week, _which I am not about to do!_"

"Wait – someone broke into your hotel room?" Erik questioned sharply. "When?"

"While I was gone. Juliette returned to our rooms after dinner and found them in disarray, and she has moved to another hotel! This man will not give me my belongings, and would not give them to Juliette because we have not paid him for the full week!"

Erik dug his wallet out and passed the man a stack of bills. "Get her things together, take them to whatever hotel she wants them to go to. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mr. Jeunet," the man replied, scowling at Christine. "And I'll be letting Mr. Johnson at the Marshall Hotel know what a wonderful guest they will be getting!"

"Why did you do that?" Christine demanded. "He let someone walk into my room! I can assure you, this would not have happened to me anywhere else."

"Christine..."

"You shouldn't have paid him," Christine interrupted. "I have never had my room broken into. This is outrageous!"

"Was anything stolen?"

She turned to glare at him. "It was a little difficult to tell, with everything I own dumped into a pile on the floor."

"Jewelry? Money?" Erik inquired, hoping to calm her down.

"No, nothing like that. I don't wear jewels, and Juliette said all of my money was accounted for. Everything that was dear to me went to the Paumard's with us."

Erik stilled, because it sounded as if her room had been searched, and he immediately had an idea of who would do something like that.

Lesley's father.

The old bastard had probably hired one of his fellow Klan members to go into Christine's room and look for incriminating evidence against him.

Erik glanced around the square, and thought he saw someone watching from the shadows. He turned fully toward him, but realized it was a woman in full mourning dress. As she began walking in a diagonal line across the street, Erik caught a glimpse of dark, nearly black hair, and large green eyes. She was very lovely, and he had a hard time dragging his eyes away from her retreating form.

When he turned back to face Christine, her eyebrows had gone nearly into her hairline. "You're no help at all! Go away, I'll deal with this myself," she said irritably.

"Listen," Erik said quickly. "I don't want you going off alone until this has been resolved. Not you, and not Josephine. There are dangers in Savannah – things I cannot tell you about."

"Well none of that matters to me. I'm going to speak with the police -"

"No, you can't. They won't help you," Erik stated darkly. "It would be best if you would move in with Bernadette."

"That would be quite impossible," Christine said icily.

"I will go somewhere else." Erik hesitated a moment. "I'm building a house across town. It isn't quite finished, but..."

"No, Erik. I'm going to the Marshall Hotel," Christine replied firmly, blocking out the image of the castle he must be building his new bride. "Juliette and Josephine are already there. I will make certain no one gets in this time."

"Christine..." Erik stopped himself from taking a step closer to her when she lifted an emotionless gaze to his.

"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I've been doing it for years now."

Erik held his palms up in surrender as she stalked past him and got into the carriage, which was now loaded with enough luggage to break the springs. He could see Lesley's trunk on the back, and he reminded the driver to deliver it to her house. With a tight feeling in his chest, Erik watched Christine leave, and wondered how in the world he would be able to forget her.

* * *

Viola did not make it to their lesson the next morning, something she had not done in all the years they had been meeting. The quickest and least noticeable route to her house was by boat, so Erik set off down the back waters of the Savannah River. Viola lived in a small community of freed slaves on one of the many islands around the city. As soon as he stepped out of his canoe, Erik could hear children laughing and playing, but when they noticed him, they immediately stopped. 

Several women were washing clothes in large tubs in the clearing, and a few men lounged on buckets in the midst of a giant pile of peas that they were shelling. John Coleman sat on Viola's porch, the undeniable leader of their small village, measuring well over six feet tall with graying hair and wise, old eyes. Three years ago Erik had heard chanting in the woods, and the night was lit by a strange fire. Thinking the church behind the house had caught in a blaze, he'd raced through the woods and watched figures in white, pointed hats standing in front of the burning church, with a burning cross behind them.

It was only later after they had left that he found the bodies hanging in the trees. There were six in total – only Viola lived. She had been beaten severely and left for dead, along with her husband, child, and several other people. As he'd cut her down and lifted the rope from her neck, a giant had appeared out of nowhere, and stared down at the disfigured man holding one of his own.

John Coleman still did not wholly trust Erik, and was disapproving of the lessons Erik gave Viola, but there was an understanding between them. When Erik could, he provided warnings for them to hide, sometimes only moments before a raid. There were few others who did the same. Most of Savannah either did not care, or hated the freed slaves enough to want to destroy their lives. They were regarded as animals, and treated little better than dogs.

"Is she alright?" Erik asked bluntly.

"So y'all ain't heard?" John asked, eyeing him. "I figured the ole' Judge woulda told y'all by now."

"I was out of town. What happened to her?" Erik demanded.

"Some boys down by the river found her. Can't say what happen'. She ain't been awake much."

Erik stepped up onto the porch, and entered the doorless little house. Viola lay on a makeshift bed on the floor, and her mother sat beside her singing softly. Bruises covered her face, and there were scratches all down her arms and legs. Erik knelt next to her, anger boiling suddenly to the surface.

Mrs. Jackson opened her eyes in shock, and then narrowed them in anger.

"This all you fault! You and dem singin' lesson!" she said, her eyes filling with tears. "Dem boys did this 'cause you!"

"I'm sorry," Erik whispered, taking Viola's hand. "I never meant for her to be hurt."

"She never came home. I looked and looked. She never came home."

"Mrs. Jackson, has your daughter ever mentioned moving North to you?"

"What for? They everywhere. We can't hide. We can't keep runnin'. Moving do us no good, and we can't afford it anyway."

Erik glanced at Viola. Her breathing was steady, and she didn't appear to be in any danger. They had their own cures around here, and did not appreciate outside help all that much. But he had to make things right for her. Somehow finding her alive as he had, she had become his responsibility. Her son and husband were dead, and the first thing she'd seen on opening her eyes was his face, and she hadn't ever said a word about it.

"There is a college up North," Erik said quietly. "They would teach her..."

"What good is learnin' gonna do her?" Mrs. Jackson demanded, rising to her feet. "She ain't gonna be nothin' but a farmer or a maid the rest o' her life. She don' wanna learn books, and I don' want you comin' round here fillin' her head with nonsense!"

"Mama..."

They both glanced down as Viola's eyes fluttered open, bruised and swollen as they were. Mrs. Jackson helped her drink a little water, fussily tending to her face with a damp cloth.

"Viola, who did this?" Erik asked softly.

"It was dark. I couldn't see a thing," she whispered. "Don't want your singing college, Erik. Mama's right. You need to go."

"I can help you, if you'll let me."

Viola's head slumped to the side, and she slept again. Faced with the disapproving look her mother gave him, Erik let them be.

He returned home to find Lesley sitting on the porch steps, watching her horse graze across the lawn. Erik caught his reins and looped them over a rail, and gazed down at his somber faced fiancée.

"You look very lovely today, Lesley," he murmured, helping her to her feet. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"I wanted to see you." She wrapped her arms around his waist and let him press her close. "Erik, if you and Christine-"

"Shh. Don't speak, my dear," Erik said softly. "Come inside."

"I really shouldn't. Bernadette is not home."

"I just wish to show you where I teach. That's all."

"Erik, will you take me to _our_ house? The one you're building?"

Surprised, he tilted her head back. Her eyes were glassy, and he could see what a night's worth of thinking and worry had done to her. "I thought you wanted it to be a surprise, Lesley."

"Show me," she pleaded, her fingers digging into his coat as if to hold him there forever. "I want to see it."

"You will see it when I finish," he promised, tracing the winged edges of her brows with his thumbs. "I would never..."

"Erik, please. I want to see it," Lesley said. "I _need_ to see it."

Slowly Erik nodded, and she waited patiently as he saddled his horse. They rode in silence through town, then beyond it to a hilly region heavy with timber that men were working to clear. Lesley had wanted a house to look down on Savannah, painted white with a yellow kitchen. He had barely broken ground on it, and it would be impossible to have it completed by the time of the wedding. Their plan had been for him to simply move to her house in town, then when it was finished by next summer, they would move one final time.

Erik watched her as their mounts steadily climbed the hill, the expression on her face not of happiness, but something that tore desperately at his heart. He knew what she believed – that he would abandon her for Christine. As much as he wanted to vehemently deny his feelings for Christine, it would be a lie Lesley would clearly see through.

"The walls should go up in a month or so," he said quietly. "Work has been slow because of the rain every evening – and because of my schedule. I think..."

"Erik, I can't marry you."

If she had kicked him, he wouldn't have been anymore caught off – guard. He turned in the saddle to stare at her, and she returned his gaze with such sadness and misery that he took her hand and sidled his horse closer.

"You don't mean that. We will marry." He kissed the back of her hand, watched as a tear slipped down her cheek. "Lesley, we will marry."

"No," Lesley whispered, closing her eyes. "I can't marry you, knowing that you love someone else."

"I love _you_." There, he had finally said it to her, albeit out of fear of losing her for good.

"No. No you don't..."

Erik slid off his horse, and none too gently pulled Lesley down from her own. "Yes, I do. I know I've acted like a fool since...since Christine arrived. I promise you, Lesley, I will make you a good husband. I will try, so very hard..."

"I will not play second fiddle to her," Lesley said sharply. "I think you're making a mistake, and I hope you come to your senses, but I will not marry you while she is under your skin."

Bitterness held fast beneath the surface, pulling away the maturity with which Lesley hoped to end their engagement. She was angry because he loved someone else, and angrier still that it was a woman he'd called out to in his sleep, and that Christine was prettier and younger. Most of all, Lesley hated that Christine was a talented singer. But Lesley could see the pain in Erik's eyes, and knew this hurt him almost as much as it did her.

"Lesley, I don't want to lose you." Erik held her cheeks between his palms, and wiped away her tears. "You mean more to me than I ever thought, and I was a fool not to see what a good woman you are. Lesley, please..."

"Don't. Just don't. I've heard you say her name. Long before she ever arrived, I knew. I _knew_. And I told myself as long as she remained in the past, it didn't matter, because I loved the way you made me feel. I loved your hands, your lips." She kissed him softly, and felt herself surrender under his familiar and gentle touch, her heart exploding wildly because she knew this would be their last. Abruptly she pulled away, catching the wounded look in his eyes.

With trembling hands Lesley removed her engagement ring, and taking Erik's hand, placed the ring inside it. Erik stared down into his palm, his lips parting in shock.

"If you should change your mind," Lesley said, her voice raw with grief, "then you may give that back to me. But don't make another promise to me until you're sure I'm the woman you want. There's only room for one ring in your life, Erik. Choose wisely."

He didn't even see her move, and only glanced up at the sudden thundering of hooves. She raced her mount down the hill and through the trees, disappearing in a streak of lavender dress and chestnut horse.

Numbly he pulled Christine's ring from his pocket, and stared at the two rings, a stunning emerald, and a plain gold band.

Both returned - one in love, the other in rejection.


	43. A Jilted Woman

There was no avoiding reality as Erik sat on the beginnings of the foundation to the home he'd planned to build with Lesley, watching her slip away. He felt guilty, hurt, and relieved all at once. This was not what he had wanted, and not what he had expected. Erik knew that even if Lesley no longer wanted to be his wife, it was only because of Christine. Did he not still owe her fidelity, and need to make this right? Savannah was still in many ways a small town, and they would each face gossip if the engagement fell through. There were no guarantees with Christine, and if he made an overture toward her, there could well be disaster on both sides, no matter what she decided.

The honorable thing would be to chase Lesley down, marry her, and never look back. But what she had said was true, and she deserved better than a man whose heart was torn. He could not give Lesley hope just to keep her in waiting on the occasion that Christine did not return his feelings.

It was dark by the time he rode home, and he had no desire to face Bernadette or her questions. Instead he penned her a note, saying he was returning the horse to Francois, and not to expect him at breakfast the next morning.

When Erik rode into Francois' yard just after midnight, he was exhausted and starving. Without disturbing the family, he put the horse away and camped out on the porch, closing his eyes and wondering if he had the courage to immediately return to Savannah. The feeling of the Paumard's mutt curling up against his ribs was the last thing Erik recalled before finally drifting off to sleep.

"Is he dead?"

A lengthy silence, then a very somber, "Yes. He's dead."

"His face looks all funny. Should we get your Mother?"

"What can she do? He's dead, isn't he?"

Erik opened his eyes to find Adele staring down at him, along with an older girl that she occasionally played with. "Good morning, children," he muttered.

The two girls gasped collectively, and fled back into the house, screaming for no apparent reason, other than to scream. Moments later Patrice rushed out of the house, wielding a shotgun, sending Erik scrambling to his feet.

"Damn, Patrice, this wasn't quite the welcome I intended!"

She narrowed her eyes at him, but lowered the gun. "Well what do you expect, sneaking around here like that? For all I know, you could have been some pervert!"

"Mother, what's a pervert?" Adele chirped from behind her mother's skirts.

Patrice looked down at her daughter with a frown. "I'll tell you when you're older. Now take your friend and go back upstairs."

Grumbling, the girls complied, and Erik peered at their mother through eyes that still wouldn't quite focus. "I guess you're wondering why I'm here."

"Not really." Patrice smiled as she took a seat on the swing. "Francois and I were hedging bets on how fast you'd return. If I had my fiancée and the woman I'd loved for years in the same vicinity, I think I would be hiding as well."

Without carefully considering it, Erik removed Lesley's engagement ring from his pocket and leaned against the porch railing. "Ex – fiancée," he corrected softly.

"Oh, Erik," Patrice whispered, studying his pained features. "This isn't what you wanted, is it?"

"I don't know. It doesn't feel right, losing her like this," Erik admitted, staring down at the ring. He'd often confided in Patrice, most likely because she offered the most sensible advise possible without making him feel like a moon – struck idiot. Never would he feel comfortable sharing such things with Francois, or any other male, and Bernadette had enough to worry about. She didn't need his own agony heaped onto her guilty conscience. "I've been with her so long. Lesley is..."

"Safe?" Patrice supplied gently.

Erik nodded slowly, his stomach a knot of worry. "I trust her with the most important things. She knows everything about my past; she's accepted me in all ways. And I do care for her."

"She has been good to you."

"I haven't returned the favor," Erik admitted, bitterness seeping through. "I hate her father, and I've let it darken every part of our relationship. She doesn't deserve that."

Patrice let out an unladylike snort. "What she doesn't deserve is a father who murders innocent people. I'm sorry, but I cannot overlook her forgiving him..."

"It isn't forgiveness," Erik interrupted quickly. "It's guilt. He's bent her mind so much, she dare not disobey him. She's knows he won't change, but cannot bear the thought of him discarding her."

"I'd like to take a hot poker to him," Patrice muttered beneath her breath. "He'd come about quickly enough."

Erik could not disagree, though secretly he wished the old man would just die. Even if he did not marry Lesley, she would be better off without her father's hateful influence on her life. Ernest Brunn was a hypocritical old fool, and he hated Erik because Erik was not deceived by his long, southern drawl, which hid more venom than his aging body should allow.

"Do you want to know what I think, Erik?" Patrice asked suddenly. Without stopping for a breath, she trudged onward. "I think that if you still love Christine, then you should follow your heart."

_His heart._

Just hearing Patrice offer that seemingly simple advise, caused it to tighten in his chest. Following his heart meant risking the peace of mind he'd worked so hard for.

Not that he'd felt anything resembling peace since Christine had arrived.

"_Do_ you still love her, Erik?"

"Yes," he answered softly. "I still love her."

Patrice nodded sympathetically, but sensed he needed to forget about his troubles, at least for awhile. "Francois has gone to Washington. Why don't you just stay here until he returns? I'll feel safer knowing someone is around."

"Washington?" Erik frowned. "Why?"

Patrice rearranged her skirts, then glanced up at him with a vulnerable cast to her face. "Do you think Francois is stealing again?"

Startled for a moment, Erik thought carefully, but could not remember anything that might indicate his friend was doing anything illegal. Of course, Francois might not be inclined to share it, but Erik had to believe that Francois was smarter than to steal again. He'd been in prison once in Paris, and now had a family to take care of. Since moving here, Francois had made a fortune in imports from Europe, and something told Erik he would not risk placing their future at risk.

"No. I don't think he would do that. Why would you think it?"

Patrice leaned back against the swing and stared across the yard, looking pensive. "He started acting strange after you left, and then he just announced he was leaving. When I was cleaning around his desk, I found some papers, sketches of a gemstone of some sort, something called a Tavernier Blue. Have you ever heard of it?"

"No. You don't know what it means?"

"I wish I did. Then I wouldn't feel so concerned." Patrice turned her dark eyes back to Erik, noticing how dusty his clothes were, and his overall unkempt appearance. "You must be starving. Why don't you go upstairs? I believe you still have a change of clothes here from a previous visit. I'll make breakfast, and you can help Adele with her numbers."

"Where is Elise?" Erik asked, knowing that if he let her, Patrice would have him feeding her other daughters while she napped.

"You didn't really think I'd let Francois go to Washington empty handed, did you?" Patrice winked at Erik, then slipped inside the door as he broke out in laughter.

* * *

"We haven't left this hotel in three days," Josephine complained. "I want to be outside. Why can't we go visit Madame Giry?" 

Juliette gave her own version of an encouraging snort, and looked at Christine for the answer.

"Because we were robbed, that's why! I'm not about to leave my room unattended. You can go visit. I'm staying, although I hope Bernadette will consider coming here."

"You don't want to see Erik," Juliette accused smugly. "You're a coward, and hiding away in here is not going to resolve a thing."

Christine didn't bother denying it, although she turned to glare down at the street. "It's for the best if we don't see each other again. He loves his fiancée, and I have no place in his life as a friend, or anything else. There is no use in torturing either one of us any longer."

"Can _we_ go, Juliette?" Josephine asked hopefully. "Please?"

Juliette peered suspiciously out at the daylight which had already heated the day to an uncomfortable degree. It would be no worse out there, but merely the thought of walking was enough to make her groan. "Maybe when it's cooler, dear. Or Christine can take you, and I'll stay here."

And risk the chance of running into Erik? No, Christine thought. It was best if she stay put. The only person she had any business seeing was Bernadette, and the stubbornness in her had not allowed her to pen a note, announcing their self imposed confinement.

Seeing Christine's expression, Josephine flung herself backward on the bed. "I can go by myself, you know. I'm not a child."

"Let her go, Christine. She can stay in view of the window," Juliette agreed. "She can come up every fifteen minutes and check in."

"Juliette..."

Someone knocked at the door, breaking off Christine's long winded speech about the dangers of young girls going off alone. Josephine bounded for the door gratefully, with Christine at her heels.

"Josephine! You must always ask who is there before opening the door," Christine admonished, but the girl had already turned the knob.

Standing on the other side was Erik's fiancée, her face tightly composed and hands clenched around a pair of gloves. Josephine immediately shrank back, leaving Christine to face her alone.

"Miss Brunn, what a surprise," Christine said, providing a false smile. "Won't you come in?"

"Oh, no. I just need to see Erik," Lesley replied briskly.

Feeling her heart flip unexpectedly, Christine shook her head. "I'm sorry, he isn't here."

Lesley's eyes drifted past Christine, though she was only able to see the sitting room and not the adjoining bedrooms beyond. "I...I'm not here to cause trouble. I just would like a word with him, please."

"I haven't seen him since we returned from the Paumard's residence." Christine frowned when Lesley's hand clenched into a fist near her heart, and her eyes widened in panic. "Is he...missing?"

"No, no. I just...I thought he might have been avoiding me. You're sure he isn't here?"

Automatically Christine's gaze fell upon the ringless hand, the one which days earlier had sported a fine, fat emerald. Slowly her mind cleared, and yet it was not joy which flooded her, but dismay.

"You ended your engagement?" Christine whispered softly.

"Yes."

Christine jerked her eyes back to Lesley's, which were full of pain and uncertainty. "You love him. Why would you do that?"

Immediately that pain changed to anger, and Christine was quite certain the woman would slap her, but Lesley took a step away from the door, breathing quietly for a few moments.

"My relationship with him is not your concern," Lesley finally replied. "If he is not here, then I will look elsewhere. Goodbye, Miss Daae."

"Wait!" Christine impulsively grabbed Lesley's arm, releasing her once it registered what she had done. The thought of Erik alone after Lesley had broken their engagement was shattering. He would be devastated. Just as much, if not more so than the last time. "Lesley, I didn't come here to cause trouble. Had I known, I never would have bothered him again."

Lesley smiled bitterly, staring at her for a moment. "You've always caused trouble for Erik and me. What amazes me, is that despite the humiliation you've dealt him, he still thinks you're Saint Christine. It makes me wonder what kind of man I agreed to marry, knowing he could be trampled on like that, and still come back begging for more."

Stunned at the venom in Lesley's tone, Christine could think of nothing to say. With one final glare, Lesley stalked down the hall and around the corner.


	44. Truth Over Omelets

The site is having a serious meltdown right now, so sorry for the troubles (as if it's my fault!). I'm going to test out updating three times a week and see how we do. I'm ready to get this dmn thing uploaded!

* * *

Francois returned home a week later to find Erik watching Adele dressed in her very finest "princess" dress, painting, complete with an easel and a beret. There appeared to be more paint on her dress than on the canvas, and paint was unfortunately dripping from the brush onto the porch.

"Father!" she screeched the moment she saw him.

Wearily setting seven year old Elise onto her feet, Francois allowed Adele to launch herself at him. "Good morning, sweetheart," he grunted painfully. "Did you miss me?"

"Yes!" Adele squealed. "Monsieur Juenet is helping me paint, and Mother and Aurelie are taking a nap!"

"Indeed?" he asked, amused to find Erik scowling. "I see somethings do not change, even when I am gone. How long has she been '_asleep_'?"

Erik pulled out his pocket watch, squinting at the glare from the sun. "I believe it's been three hours, if you count her twenty minute jaunt downstairs for food and wine."

Francois resisted a smile, knowing very well his wife was upstairs with a nose in her book, thankful for the respite from motherhood. "I stopped by to see Madame Giry. She said that you'd come out here."

"Yes. Well." Erik cleared his throat several times, then met his friend's knowing gaze. "Does anyone know yet?"

"I would say so," Francois replied quietly. "Lesley is looking for you."

"Oh?"

"As is Christine Daae," he added. "Bernadette told Lesley that you were here. Obviously she didn't believe her, because he went to Christine's hotel room, thinking she would find you there."

"Oh."

Erik's mouth snapped shut, the tension building again between his shoulder blades. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. He'd wanted to get away from both of them for a few days, and it turned out they were trying to find him.

"Erik," Francois said carefully, "what do you know about Christine, since you've last seen her?"

"Not much. Why?"

Francois sent Elise and Adele into the house. "Your niece has an interesting gem in her possession. Elise called it a pretty bauble, and when I took it from her the other day, I could tell it was no ordinary rock."

"So? Perhaps Christine bought it for her," Erik said with a shrug. "She's bought her all sorts of things."

Francois shook his head with a wry laugh. "No, no. She wouldn't have been so foolish, and this item is rare. Very rare. In fact, no one has been able to prove it's existence in two hundred years."

"What in the devil are you talking about?"

Francois pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, and handed it to Erik. "I'm talking about the precursor to the French Blue, a diamond once known as the Tavernier Blue."

Erik frowned as he studied the ugly, odd shaped sketch. "You aren't making any sense, my friend. Are you saying that my niece has the French Blue diamond?"

"No, not at all," Francois said, his hands shaking in excitement. "I think she has the sister diamond of the original Tavernier, if such a thing exists. If not, then she still has something very exquisite. I know a diamond when I see it. I didn't think that it was glass. I've never seen anything like it, and I..."

"Why would Christine give something so expensive to a child? That doesn't make sense."

"Well, no. I didn't think so either. I wondered if maybe..."

"Wondered what?" Erik asked sharply.

"Christine would travel quite frequently in her line of work," Francois began nervously. "Perhaps she's discovered the benefit of smuggling..."

Erik's laughter cut him off, then he was rewarded with a glare. "She's not a gem smuggler."

"How else would she come across something so extraordinary? Erik, this is something private collectors would pay an obscene amount of money for. Are you sure it isn't in her nature to take advantage of her social status? Because believe you me, if I were not married, I would still partake of the profits from such ventures."

"It is very good, then, that you think that way," Patrice drawled from the doorway. "Because if I ever find out that you partake of any illegal profits, Monsieur Paumard, I will have your head mounted on a platter."

Francois grinned at his wife. "I love you too, darling."

Rolling her eyes, Patrice trudged forward and placed Aurélie in his arms. "Do you really think Christine would be allowing Josephine to play with something so valuable? It was not Christine who was shrieking about the yard when Elise had it. If you both remember, it was Josephine."

Erik could hardly recall the morning they'd left. His mind had been in turmoil, and having Christine and Lesley within arm's reach at the same time had left his brain slightly addled. "Which begs the question: how did my niece come into possession of a rare diamond, and what does it have to do with Christine's hotel room being broken into while we were all here?"

Francois' eyes widened. "I think you'd best return to Savannah, Erik. Whether you want to or not."

# - # - # - # - #

* * *

Christine and Josephine had begun visiting Bernadette in Erik's absence. They spent every available moment with her, and for the first time Christine could see what losing Meg had done to Bernadette. She seemed ultimately lost without her daughter, and was afraid to stay in the old house by herself at night. 

"He comes to breakfast every morning," Bernadette told Christine. "He's hardly missed a day since we came here."

"Erik just needed to be alone a few says," Christine said reassuringly. "He'll be back."

"I can't imagine what he must be thinking right now," Bernadette whispered. "He's always confided in me - until he met her."

Directing Bernadette to a chair in the large kitchen, Christine began to prepare some breakfast for her. "How did they meet?" she asked curiously.

"I've no idea. I only met her after you arrived," Bernadette replied. "I'd seen them together in town, but he never introduced me. I merely assumed..."

"They were lovers?"

Startled, Bernadette nodded once. "I never expected him to find someone. It took quite awhile to become used to the idea. Then he proposed to her this year..."

"When?" Christine whispered with dread.

Bernadette gave her a sad smile. "At Christmas last year. He didn't want to spend another one alone."

Christine savagely whisked the eggs, heedless of the yolk splattering on her dress, and of the oven's heat making her cheeks flush. As much as she wanted to walk out right then, to leave and allow Erik to reconcile with his fiancée, there was something even greater which made her want to stay. Her heart ached for him, and yet she felt a slight resentment that he loved Lesley so much that his pain kept him away.

"Why didn't you marry, Christine?" Bernadette asked, not for the first time.

"I..."

Christine closed her eyes, the bowl loosening in her hands, then slipping to the floor.

"Damnation!"

"Christine!" Bernadette scolded, rising to help her clean the mess. "There will be no extra cursing in this house. Erik does enough for all of Savannah."

Christine mopped impatiently at the egg yolk running in all directions on the floor, her cheeks flush with heat, her eyes bright with tears. "I cannot even make you a dam...an omelet without disaster striking. Look at me! I'm...I'm a mess! In a matter of weeks I've managed to destroy the only meaningful relationship Erik has ever had. I've ruined the career I fought so desperately for, my understudy is a whore...and I cannot even make a damned omelet!"

A deep chuckle from the doorway made Christine spin around. In the process her feet slid in sticky egg yolk, and went flying out from beneath her. At the moment that her head connected with the floor, Christine didn't believe the day could get worse.

"Am I correct in assuming you did, in fact, ruin your voice, Christine?" Erik asked, leaning over her.

"Yes," she said weakly, staring up at him.

Disappointment flashed across his face, and he extended a hand out to her. Reluctantly she stood, resisting the urge to sling egg across the room.

"And you did not destroy my relationship with Lesley," Erik added quietly. "I managed to do that all on my own, by not being honest with her."

"It sounded as if you were perfectly honest with her," Christine snapped. "She certainly had no problem recounting our history to me."

Erik rubbed his face wearily, glancing at Bernadette as she slipped from the room. "I had to tell her. She deserved the truth after putting up with me for the last two years. I was never perfect, Christine. I didn't have to pretend to be with her."

"You never had to pretend with me, Erik," Christine returned evenly. "I deserved the truth."

Shame colored his face, and immediately the anger left. He started to turn away, but she caught him by the arm, her expression contrite.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..."

"It's what we do best, Christine. We tear each other apart. It seems a regretful pattern, one which we cannot break."

His words stung, but it was not something she could deny. Since the night of her debut as Elissa, wounds had grown deeper, and the distance wrought of anger, confusion, and betrayal had separated them. Christine missed her angel, her friend, but perhaps they would never find that sort of solace in each other again. Perhaps it was too late even for friendship.

"Then there is no reason for me to stay," she said quietly. "I refuse to be the root of your unhappiness, Erik. Go to Lesley."

He inhaled sharply, his expression turning hard. "I can't. She's made it clear..."

"Lesley was looking for you a few days ago. I know she still cares for you," Christine said softly. "Won't you at least try to make things right?"

Erik shrugged his shoulders, still unsure of what he would do. He still believed the right thing - the honorable thing - was to find Lesley and beg her to take him back, but she deserved better than a man whose heart was entangled with another's. At once he realized that the only thing he felt now, was a sense of relief. Lesley had freed him, and Christine was now free as well. It seemed he could not stop his heart from beating, nor could he deny how much he wanted Christine.

"Can you be changed in an hour?" he asked quietly.

Her eyes widened, then she looked down in disgust at her dress. "Goodness, I hope I can be changed in the next five minutes," Christine said with a laugh. "Why?"

"I'd like to take you somewhere. There's someone I want you to meet."

Christine regarded him suspiciously for a moment, thrilled at the prospect of being alone with him, and nervous at the same time. "May I ask where?"

Erik smiled slightly. "No, you may not. Go change into something that you aren't afraid of getting stained."

"I'm to change my dirty dress for another that I won't mind getting dirty?" Christine asked slowly.

"And bring my little cousin," Erik added as he left the room, thinking it might do Josephine some good to meet a class of people who wanted the opportunity to learn, but never had a chance. He also wanted to find out if she was still carrying around that blue gemstone.

Perhaps it might change Christine's perspective as well. She did not seem eager to even try to return to the stage, and the girl who had once talked incessantly of singing had barely uttered a word about it since she had come. Erik could see in her eyes that her passion for music was diminished, if not completely gone.

And there was nothing he wanted more - except perhaps her love - than to hear her sweet voice again.


	45. Worlds Apart

I won't have time to update in the morning, and it's taking 2 1/2 hours to save one single change to my chapters so here are 2 additional chapters for "Monday's" update.

That is, if it works this time...

* * *

Christine returned to find Erik standing on the porch wearing only a linen waistcoat over a lightweight cotton shirt. She was surprised to see him so informally dressed and not wearing a frock coat. Beneath his arm was a leather case that she recognized as the portfolio for his sheet music.

A dour faced Josephine stood beside him, her expression indicating that she did not want to accompany them, for any reason.

"This way," Erik said, guiding her down toward the river. They walked shoulder to shoulder, Josephine lagging behind, until they stood at a dock.

"What's this?" Christine asked, staring hard at the little boat.

"It's called a pirogue. The quickest way to where we are going, is down the river, then into the backwaters."

"I..." Christine involuntarily took a step back, the novelty of spending time with him quickly fading as she stared at the swiftly flowing current. "I don't think so. I'd rather take a longer route, if you please."

Not glancing back, Erik untied the boat and guided it closer to the dock. Without a word Josephine scampered in, suddenly looking delighted.

"Can I row the oars?" Josephine asked, lifting one up and dipping it into the water.

"Maybe," Erik grunted, then turned around to face a green gilled Christine. "What's wrong? You look unwell."

"She's afraid of water," Josephine announced.

Erik stared at Christine in surprise, noticing that her hands trembled, and she'd backed nearly three feet from the bank. "Since when are you afraid of water?" he extended a hand to her, his gaze steadily on hers. "It isn't far, and it isn't very deep. We'll be staying close to shore."

Christine swallowed, her eyes fixated on the little boat. "I...I don't... think I can..."

Erik's expression changed to one of concern, and he suddenly became a man wanting answers - answers that Christine did not wish to give, especially about this. It was not so much the near drowning that she could not tell him, but the reasons for her desperation on the bridge - the brief thought of leaping to her death, and the subsequent, unintentional fall.

"I'm a strong swimmer, Christine. As I recall, so were you," Erik said quietly. "Is it the alligators?"

"Ala-what?" Josephine asked suspiciously.

"No," Christine whispered, her jaw clenched with fear. Somehow she found the strength to step forward, though she maintained a death grip on his hand as he helped her down into the boat. It swayed violently as his own weight was positioned at the bow, and she was forced to release him so he could maneuver the oars.

With a white knuckled grip around each side of the boat, they set out, and Christine was horrified to see the line of water was nearly even with the boat's lip. Erik's back was to her, and Josephine sat on a small block of wood in the center, staring at her as she struggled not to panic. Her stomach heaved, and she leaned slightly over the side of the boat for several moments.

"You're not going to vomit like you did on the ship, are you?" Josephine asked, wrinkling her nose.

"Do be quiet," Christine pleaded, closing her eyes, then opening them again when the air grew cooler.

She could see Erik had not lied, and they were taking a small branch off the river, and going down into the shadows of some sort of shallow creek. She could see the sandy bottom, and even thought she saw a fish dart away, stirring up a murky cloud of sand.

"Are you alright?" Erik asked, turning around slightly.

"Yes," she muttered, clamping her eyes closed again. It was no longer fear, just the movement of the boat which kept her ill.

The boat rocked again, and she looked up to see Erik clambering around Josephine.

"Go sit up front, Josephine, and you can row us in."

"What are you doing?" Christine sat up anxiously. "You can't let her row the boat. She doesn't know how!"

"It never hurts to learn," Erik said, his eyes filled with concern.

"With me in here it does!" she protested fearfully.

"Relax, the current is nonexistent here, and you could easily wade through the water to shore." He sat on the bottom of the boat at her feet, and felt the side of her face. "Are you okay? You still don't look very well."

"I don't feel well," Christine mumbled, closing her eyes again.

Erik removed a linen handkerchief from his pocket, and dampened it with water along the side of the boat. He folded it into a neat square, and pressed it against her cheek. "Is it the heat?"

"I'm...I'm a little sea sick," Christine whispered. "And I don't like water."

He studied her a moment, moving the kerchief to her other cheek, then along her forehead. She seemed to be swaying with the motion of the boat, and it was no doubt increasing her discomfort. Moving aside slightly, he pulled her down into the bottom of the boat with him, placing his arm behind her neck. "That doesn't make sense. You and Meg went swimming in the Seine. Bernadette punished you both for two weeks."

_'Yes, well, at the time I'd never almost drowned,'_ she thought to herself, rolling her head backwards. She opened her eyes to find him staring down, quite possibly at her bosom. Awareness, then embarrassment sank in. "Erik, what are you doing?"

Erik's eyes flew back to hers, and he hastily applied the cloth to her cheek again. "I'm hoping you do not vomit on me," he answered, "and that Josephine can guide us safely to our destination, so that I may care for you."

Christine glanced up to the front of the boat, where Josephine was happily pushing the oars into the water. They did not seem to be moving anywhere, no doubt because she was more or less flipping water backwards, rather than rowing.

"I...I can manage," Christine whispered, uncomfortably positioned between his body and the boat's sidewall. "You really should go back up front."

"You're ill," Erik murmured, not wanting to leave her. "If I had known, I would have taken a couple of horses. You aren't afraid of them, are you?"

"No."

"Any other fears you wish to tell me about, Christine?"

"I'm still not fond of spiders. Nor snakes."

"Ah, you're not half as bad about them as Bernadette," Erik said, the corner of his mouth tilting into a smile. "You know, last year a snake got into the house, and she pushed one of my students out of the chair so she could stand in it and scream."

Despite her discomfort, Christine couldn't help but laugh. "What did you do?"

"I scooted it out the door with a broom. It was harmless, only a King snake. They keep the other dangerous snakes away, or at least that's what I've heard."

"Bernadette obviously didn't think so," Christine chuckled. "This place, it's so strange."

She glanced up for the first time, and noticed the beauty of their surroundings. America was different than what she had imagined, and Georgia surpassed all of her expectations. The water was thick with trees, and gray, ropy strands of Spanish Moss hung from the branches. Cypress knees rose near the base of star shaped trunks, little bald knobs in the midst of eerily black water.

"Why did you choose to come to Georgia?"

"Francois had a friend in merchant trade, and when talk of war reached Paris, he'd already made plans to come here. But Patrice's father and brother refused to grant him permission to marry her, and she refused his suit, so he remained in Paris. We all decided to come here after...the Commune was suppressed." Erik shifted slightly to accommodate his aching leg, propping it on the block Josephine had sat on. The movement rocked the boat, and Christine gripped his shirt near the waistband of his trousers, closing her eyes. His stomach tensed, and another part of him stirred. Casually he brought her hand up to his chest, clasping it in a far safer place than where it had been.

Startled, Christine looked at him, realizing what she had done, and tried to draw her hand away. Erik's gaze locked on hers, quickening her heart with his suddenly warm gaze. Her nervousness had nothing to do with a fear of water now, it was his wide shoulders, long, muscular legs, and the most definite look of desire in his eyes.

"How do you feel now?" he asked, his tone deeply intimate.

"I...ah..." Her eyes grew wide as he touched the back of her cheek with his hand, then turned palm inward to cup her cheek.

"You look a bit flushed," Erik murmured.

Speechless, breathless, and quite certain he could hear her heart racing away, Christine knew he wanted to kiss her, and that it was what she wanted as well. She also knew that Josephine's little ears were bent toward them, and that he'd barely come out of his engagement with Lesley, a situation which could be changed at any moment. Lesley still loved him, and Christine could tell that Erik cared for her as well.

Christine's eyes slid closed as Erik leaned in and pressed his lips against her forehead. Just as abruptly, he pulled away.

"Wha-"

"I need to go back up front," he said. "Josephine is getting tired, no doubt."

Christine stared at him, disappointment and a hint of annoyance creeping into her eyes. "Of course," she replied, thoroughly flustered.

"Are you alright now?" Erik asked, resisting a smile as she blushed deeper. It was interesting to know that he made her nervous, and not afraid. He had difficulty not fulfilling his wishes, but now was neither the time, nor the place.

"I am."

"You look lovely today, Christine."

Her lips parted in surprise, a beautiful soft pink that he longed to taste. "Thank you," she breathed.

"Much better without the egg," he added somberly.

Christine felt embarrassment driving away the sexual tension, and seized onto it instead of continuing to focus on how close his mouth remained to hers.

"Thank you," she said again dryly. "I think."

He reached out and tugged on a strand of semi straight brown hair. "I still don't like this, though. What would it take to change it back to...?" His hands expanded dramatically around her head, and she laughed.

"In this climate, I'm surprised it hasn't already. A little water, no attention from me, and it would take on a life of it's own."

"A good thing that you are afraid of water then," Erik muttered softly. "I'd have pitched you over in a second, had I known that's all it took."

# - # - # - # - #

Constance was growing more agitated by the day. The young opera singer had finally begun leaving her new hotel room, but the old opera singer was staying inside, most likely to prevent anyone from gaining access. The diamond had most certainly been found, as evidenced by the disemboweled stuffed rabbit, but it's location remained a frustrating mystery. This incensed her greatly, and Constance knew that to prevent more bloodshed at the hands of her brother, she would have to take a more aggressive approach to finding out where the diamond was.

She drugged the old woman's food.

While Juliette Dvorak lay snoring on her bed, Constance once again went through their belongings, this time in a more organized fashion, and still she came up with nothing.

Anger propelled her upstairs to the room she shared with her brother, who of course, was still drinking coffee and reading the paper.

"You know, these Americans might have something going," Gordon said, with a nearly good natured tone. "Out in this place they call the West, fortunes are being made panning for gold, and there are thousands of mines to be had, in all sorts of different minerals: gold, silver, lead, even diamonds..."

"I prefer those which have already been discovered," Constance replied coldly. "I think it's time we changed tactics. I'm tired of playing these games."

Immediately the paper was set aside, and a dangerous smile lit Gordon's face. After months of searching, the diamond was not nearly as high on his list of desires as a welcomed pursuit. "Do you? Are you ready to let me do things my way, then?"

"And have another bloodbath on our hands?" Constance asked with disdain. "I think not."

Her companion leaned in ever so slightly, his green eyes full of intrigue. "Tell me then, Constance. What have you planned?"

# - # - # - # - #

* * *

It had begun to rain, and Erik rowed them a little further up the river, then docked the boat near a muddy beach. He dragged it several feet onto shore with both of them inside until it reached dry land. Christine and Josephine both glanced warily around the woods.

"Erik, what are we doing out here?" Christine asked, peering into the dark shadows of the trees. "Are you lost?"

"Hardly," he muttered, hiding the boat behind some tree branches after assisting them ashore. "I wanted to introduce you to Viola, my student."

"Oh." Christine smiled at him, though she still glanced suspiciously around as they entered the trees.

A path was discernible, and they followed his silent figure up onto a slight knoll. At the top was a small cluster of dirt brick houses, and a small group of dark – skinned women were hurriedly pulling clothes from the line. One of them turned at their approach, and immediately scowled.

"I told you not to come back," she huffed, hands on hips.

"Good afternoon to you as well, Mrs. Jackson. I've brought along a friend to meet your daughter, and this is my cousin, Josephine."

"Mm-hmmm," Mrs. Jackson replied, turning back to her duties. "Viola's still laid up in the house, if you still tryin' to plant them silly dreams in her head. Girl's been complainin' all week 'bout you, she has."

"Is she feeling better?"

"Some better," Mrs. Jackson acknowledged, not turning around. "You better have a plan, Erik, cause we ain't gonna stay here if we can help it."

Something in Erik's expression told Christine now was not the time to ask, and he guided her up a plank board porch, then into a tiny one room structure. Sitting up on a bed, snapping peas or some other vegetable, was a woman about Erik's own age. She glanced up in shock as Christine and Josephine entered first, then a smile lit up her bruised face once she saw who was behind them.

"You came back!"

"Did you truly think that I would not?" Erik asked brusquely. "I've told you before, your talent is too precious to waste."

"Pshaw." Viola set her bucket of peas aside. "It ain't a waste of my talent to praise the Lawd. How can I leave my people at the church?"

Erik sat on a chair next to her, studying her face a moment, but her eyes pleaded with him not to say anything. Erik turned towards the two curious females beside him. "Viola, this is my first student, Christine Daae, and my cousin Josephine."

"Chris-tine," Viola said wondrously. "My, I near thought you were just someone he'd made up."

"It's lovely to meet you. Erik has said you're his favorite student," Christine murmured.

Viola's eyes turned sharply to his. "He's lied to you then. We can't even get through a lesson without one of us shoutin' at the other."

Erik coughed discreetly into his hand, quickly becoming embarrassed. "Ah,well, I meant it, Viola. I truly did."

Delight, then pain filtered through her expression, and Erik knew it was because of the insurmountable obstacles in her way. She could go to the college in Boston, yes, and learn all that they would teach her. But her mother had been right when she said her daughter would never become anything more than a farmer or a maid. The narrow minded world would not accept her talents, though with music, Erik firmly believed anything was possible. He still wanted her to go, if just to see what it would be like, but she continued to adamantly refuse.

"So are you a singer then?" Viola, peering over Erik's shoulder at the finely dressed woman, then at the younger, female version of Erik beside her.

"I'm retired," Christine replied automatically, "but yes, I was a singer for several years."

"Not long enough." Christine heard Erik mutter beneath his breath.

Christine ignored him and stepped forward to clasp Viola's hand. The woman's dark eyes widened for a moment in surprise, and as Christine moved closer she could see raised scars across her arms, throat, and face. Someone had beaten her recently, but it was the older wounds that were the most horrific. This was the woman Erik had found hanging near the church, the woman who had lost both her husband and her child.

"I heard you singing a few weeks ago. Your voice is very powerful. I can see why Erik thinks you should be in a formal school," Christine said cautiously. "Is it very difficult to leave your family? Because I am sure that arrangements could be made..."

"I don't believe I would be as welcome as Erik likes to think," Viola replied, glancing at her teacher. "You learn, after awhile, it's best just to stay in your place."

"They accept students like you. I've told you that. You would not be the only person there of your heritage," Erik said quietly. He looked over at Christine, and watched the knowledge sink into her mind. "Boston Conservatory has accepted freed slaves for years. I correspond with other teachers all across America and Europe, and most of them agree that it is a fine school, especially for your circumstances."

"I can't read or write."

"Do you think you are too old to learn?" Erik inquired, then translating to Josephine all that Viola had said. He turned back to his student. "This is my niece, and she cannot read, nor write. I am going to make damned sure that she does before she grows as stubborn as you, and I know for a fact that neither one of you is as unintelligent as you would have me believe. Viola, _I_ could not read very well until I was Josephine's age."

Christine stepped forward, a tremulous smile on her lips. "It is not something to be ashamed of. It is something to overcome. Things cannot stay as they are forever, and I know that Erik will do everything that he can to make sure you..."

"They never liked for us to learn to read," Viola mumbled, staring down at her hands clasped together on her lap.

"It doesn't mean that you're incapable, Viola." Erik studied her set jaw a moment, knowing she thought he didn't understand. To a certain extent, he did. There was a sense of shame that she felt in not being well learned, but there was also two hundred years worth of oppression drummed into her soul. The only time that he could see her truly free, was when she was singing. Viola's mother was the only family that she had now. If there was a father, his identity was lost to years of war, or perhaps he had been sold. The very end of her lineage was with her mother, who did not even know who her parents were. These people had had more than just their freedom stolen, more than just the years of their lives forced into back breaking work or thankless hours of serving their 'master'.

Most of them had had their futures taken as well, those who could not believe in themselves, nor find the strength and support to reach out for something more. Erik wanted Viola to find all that she deserved, and to have the same chance that a woman of another color would have.

"Will you at least continue your lessons?" he asked her patiently.

"I don't think I can," Viola whispered, her voice tinged with fear.

Erik squeezed her hand once, but didn't wish to press her. It was her decision, and perhaps she needed a little time. She had been through very hard times in her life, and they were likely never to end. He'd just wished to help her achieve a fraction of happiness, and just once feel what Christine undoubtedly had.

"Don't be a stranger," Erik murmured.

He'd nearly made it to the door when a pea shot across the room and hit his shoulder. He turned, finding her smiling in mischief.

"When is your wedding?"

"I...I don't know," he faltered, glancing quickly at Christine. "Nothing is settled."

"I might come by and see Bernadette soon," Viola compromised, then held up another pea. "Now go on, before Mama comes in here wanting to know why I'm not done yet."

# - # - # - #

Erik rowed the boat home in silence, though he occasionally glanced back to find Christine again clenching the sides and looking ill. Obviously he had only distracted her, and he wanted to know very much what had happened to make her fear water. It occurred to him now that his first priority should have been to find Lesley once he had arrived back in town, but at the time he'd wanted a few moments alone with Christine, before he decided anything permanently.

Lesley Ann was waiting with Bernadette when they all returned, her eyes dull with pain the moment she saw Christine at his side.

A sickening feeling entered Erik's heart as he stared at Lesley, and he strongly curbed the impulse to take her in his arms, and to promise that the past few weeks had all been a mistake. But he knew the mistake had probably been in asking her to marry him in the first place.

He cast a desperate glance to Bernadette, and she immediately surged into action.

"Christine, would you and Josephine like to..."

"Yes, of course," Christine agreed, tearing herself from the room.

Dimly he heard the front door close as they all left the house, and Erik moved numbly across the room, staring into Lesley Ann's soft, hazel eyes.

"Lesley, I..."

"There's no need to say anything," she whispered, hugging her arms together. "I just wanted to make sure you were doing alright."

"I'm not."

"It certainly looked like you were doing fine a moment ago."

"How can you think this is easy for me, Lesley? I offered you my hand in marriage, and you agreed. I was prepared to commit myself to you no matter what, but now the entire town knows that you've broken our engagement."

Her expression taut, she closed her eyes and drew a sharp breath. "I could not marry you, knowing that you would be looking behind for Christine at every turn. Now I realize you would have been doing that even if she had not shown up. It's better that it happened now, before it was too late."

"Too late?" he echoed.

"You love her."

"Yes, Lesley. I always have." Erik pressed a hand against his eyes, forcing the sting of tears away. "She terrifies me. Even were you not in my life, I don't know if I would ever have the courage to trust her that way again."

"So I am your safe bet?" Lesley asked cynically. "Is that all that I was? No longer young enough, and never pretty enough to turn a man's head?"

"Lesley, no. You're beautiful." He reached for her, but she turned away, her expression cold.

"Don't..."

"You're perfect," Erik insisted, drawing her back around to face him. "I think the world of you."

"Obviously not enough for you to marry me without looking back."

"What do you want me to say?" he demanded, his tone inflicted with anguish. "Do you want me to lie? I can't do that, but my God, I swear that I never meant to hurt you. I'm so bloody sorry, Lesley."

"Are you going to marry her now?"

"I've just lost you. I can't even think of that right now," Erik said quietly. "I have the utmost respect for you. I've no intention of suddenly flaunting her beneath your nose."

Lesley Ann scoffed loudly. "Is that not what you were doing today?"

"No. I arrived home and she was already here." Anger replaced Lesley's shattered expression, making Erik shift uncomfortably. "I took her and Josephine to meet a student."

"You mean that colored woman?"

"I mean a _student_. There's no difference between her and my other students, unless you want me to say she is exceptionally more talented."

"I see," Lesley replied slowly. "Why haven't you ever discussed her with me? Why haven't I met her?" Erik didn't answer, but the answer resounded in the room nonetheless: her father, and his cronies, and Erik's obvious belief that she might tell him something, or accidentally let it slip. "Trust only extends so far, I guess."

"I've my reasons, Lesley. She's been attacked twice now. Her husband and child were murdered, and just days ago she was beaten, raped, and left for dead."

"I'm not like my father, Erik," Lesley Ann said defensively.

No, she wasn't. But she wasn't completely unprejudiced either. She would never feel comfortable defying her father to accept other cultures. She wouldn't be able to greet Viola, or unquestioningly allow him to teach her or others like her. That had never been a concern, as he'd known it from the moment he'd met her, and decided it wasn't worth losing her over. Lesley could not help the way her father had taught, nay, controlled her life. It had just been Erik's hope that her feelings would change with time.

"I guess we don't need to have this same old conversation, do we?" Lesley asked with a shrug. "You're free to do as you please. I am no longer willing to be the second woman in your life, and I have no wish to tie my hand to yours in marriage when I know you love someone else. Marry Christine. I hope that she makes you happy."

"Lesley..."

Lesley Ann clasped his hands, regret filling her eyes. "I know this hasn't been easy for you. I don't want a marriage based on honorable intentions. I give you my blessing."

"I don't know what to say," Erik murmured.

"Say thank you," Lesley replied softly, embracing him one final time.

Erik pressed a kiss to the top of her head, mouthing the words he could not bear to speak aloud.


	46. The Man Most Qualified for the Job

"Would you like to come up, Bernadette?" Christine asked as the carriage pulled up before the hotel. "Erik may be awhile with his...with Lesley."

"I may as well," Bernadette answered, groaning as she removed herself from the carriage. She tried not to return the curious stares of several people on the street. Since coming here, she had been as much of a recluse as Erik. The rare trips that she made into the city were brief, although a small group of older women all but forced their way into her home at least once a month. Without realizing it, she had begun looking forward to that day, although it remained one that Erik dreaded.

Christine led Bernadette up to the second floor into a elegantly furnished sitting room. The doors to both bedrooms were closed, and her maid sat reading in a chair, drinking a glass of wine.

"Mademoiselle!" Greta rushed to her feet, nearly dropping her book. "I'm so sorry!"

"Never mind that, Greta. Is Juliette out somewhere?" Christine inquired, throwing her hat and gloves across the sofa. "It's quiet as a tomb in here."

"No, she's quite asleep," her maid replied, bobbing a curtsy to Bernadette. "I tried to wake her, and she ordered me away."

Christine frowned as she pushed open the door to Juliette's bedroom. It was dark and hot inside, the windows open but little breeze blowing through them. Juliette was snoring soundly face down on the coverlet, without a stitch of clothes on.

"Oh, my," Bernadette gasped, lifting her eyes to the ceiling. "Is she always like this?"

"No." Christine approached the bed and hurriedly flung a blanket across Juliette's bare backside. She touched her shoulder, finding it wet with sweat, yet eerily cold to the touch. "Juliette, are you ill?"

"Ugh...," the diva moaned, barely lifting her head. "I think I've eaten something rotten."

"Is your stomach ill?" Christine asked worriedly.

"No...no. I've just...I can't quite seem to rise. And it's so bloody hot...," she managed, before collapsing again.

"I'll find a doctor," Bernadette offered, taking Josephine with her as she left the room.

Juliette did not protest, to Christine's surprise. Christine looked in the bedside table, wondering if she might have taken laudanum or one of her other medications, but there was nothing. Worry tugged at her heart, as she turned Juliette over and bathed her forehead in a cool cloth. She had not even drawn on her eyebrows this morning, nor it seemed, combed her hair.

"Sit up," Christine directed gently. With Greta's assistance, she helped Juliette into a light dressing gown. What concerned Christine the most was the glazed look on her friend's face, and her complete unresponsiveness.

"Have you eaten anything today?" Christine questioned in an effort to find out what was wrong.

Juliette's eyelids drooped closed, and Christine wiped spittle off her chin. After Alberto had died, Juliette had had mild seizures of the heart, and the doctor had ordered her to take things more lightly. This heat, combined with Juliette's unrelenting appetite would not bode well for her health. And these Southerners seemed to prefer everything to be covered in some sort of fattening gravy, followed by a slice of dessert big enough for three.

"She had breakfast this morning," Greta finally said, handing Christine a comb. "She was fine up until then - singing, laughing, just like always."

"Wonderful," Christine muttered. "One hotel allows thieves inside our room, and the other tries to poison us. Did you eat the breakfast?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle. I don't feel poorly at all."

Christine sat back, looking at her maid. "Were you here all morning?"

"Madame Dvorak sent me to the docks for another of her trunks," Greta said, pointing at Juliette's box which contained the scrap books. "She thought you might like to show everyone..."

"Either something strange is going on," Christine muttered to herself, "or I've suddenly become the world's unluckiest woman."

She noticed her maid's eyes widen, then watched in amazement as Greta crossed her fingers and spun around in the center of the room.

# - # - # - # - #

The doctor finally arrived, a portly white haired man with a permanent scowl. He took Juliette's pulse, listened to her chest, and peered into both of her eyes.

"Dilated," he muttered, removing the stethoscope from his ears. He folded it in half, and glanced over to Christine. "How much laudanum has she taken?"

"Doctor, I don't think she's taken _any_," Christine replied, pacing beside the bed. "She doesn't drug herself. She's never been the sort to do that." _At least not for awhile._

"Well, that is my diagnosis, young woman, so it would help if you were honest."

"I have been," Christine snapped. "Now can you help her, or shall I find someone more capable?"

The doctor shot Christine an angry look beneath bushy eyebrows, but turned back to Juliette. "I can try a purging, though it may make her feel worse, or simply let it pass through her system. There's no antidote for stupidity."

"Is she going to live?" Bernadette asked, catching Christine's eye to silence her retort.

"Yes, though I'd say she is going to feel very uncomfortable for the next few days. If she's a drug addict, then you might consider..."

"That will be all, Doctor," Christine interrupted swiftly. "Greta, please pay this gentleman, and show him out."

The doctor left, grumbling about the inhospitality of foreigners, and Christine sat next to Juliette's bedside. She was sleeping soundly again, though occasionally her eyes would open and she would stare vacantly around the room.

"Juliette doesn't take drugs," Christine said quietly, to no one in particular. "Someone did this to her."

"Christine, are you very sure? She might have been in pain, something she didn't tell you about, and accidentally took too much. It does happen, and it doesn't mean she's addicted to anything," Bernadette said carefully.

It wasn't something her friend would want anyone to know, but after Alberto had died, Juliette had become dependent on morphine for a few months. Christine had tried everything, but was unable to devote as much time to her as she needed because of performances. Carlos had stepped in, whisked Juliette away, and the two of them had made pilgrimages to all the places Alberto had loved the best. It had been cathartic for her, and she'd come home clean and happy. She had not touched the stuff for several years because of the temptation, and had no reason to begin doing so now.

Without a word to Bernadette, Christine went into her own room, unlocked the door, and looked around. A prickle of unease feathered up her spine when she noticed that several things had been moved. Her filthy gown, which she'd stripped off hurriedly to meet Erik for his mysterious adventure was no longer lying across the bathing tub, but on the floor. Her brushes had been swept aside, and the doors to the small closet were ajar. Josephine had taken to sleeping in Christine's room because Juliette snored rather loudly in her sleep, and her belongings had been moved as well.

Not even Greta had a key to her bedroom door, and yet she could tell that someone had been in her room.

"Christine? Is something wrong?" Bernadette asked worriedly.

"No, nothing," she murmured in reply.

Locking the door behind her as she left, she wondered if her teacher might be up to his old tricks, or if a vengeful woman had invaded her privacy. She didn't think Erik would harm Juliette, though he'd certainly been capable of this sort of thing in the past. But why? Why would he do this now, of all times? It didn't make any sense at all, because hadn't they both let go of the past?

Well, perhaps not all of it, but there was no part of her feelings that Christine was ready to admit.

# - # - # - #

Josephine slipped out the front door of the hotel, grateful that the adults were distracted so that she could be alone. They'd smothered her in the last few days, offering her too much food, too much attention, and far too much affection. There was only so much that she could handle, and it scared her because she could feel herself responding to the gentle touches and kind words. Juliette was the least terrifying of all, mostly because she never stopped laughing. Christine had become her jailer, cosseting her and never allowing her a moment to breathe, always insisting that her cousin Erik was a perfect angel, and would never hurt her.

Quite frankly, Josephine didn't know what to believe.

He didn't leer at her, although he did look at her often with an unreadable expression on his face. She was getting used to seeing him without the mask, but sometimes at night she dreamed he was chasing her, and he would be shouting awful things.

She walked along the street, then cut through one of the many courtyards in the town to look out at the river. She could still see the hotel from a distance, but it was cool beneath the shade of a tree with long, snaking branches. Quickly looking around, she scrambled up to the second lowest branch, and heard a squirrel protest violently the interruption of his harvest.

At the chatter of voices behind her, she peered down, tensing as a group of school children began calling to her, their words a garble that she couldn't understand. Suddenly she resented her lack of knowledge, and longed to shout at them in a language they would understand.

"Imbeciles," Josephine hurled down, to little effect.

One of them threw a clump of dried mud into the tree, hitting her in the head. It stung, but not as much as the rock, and she caught the next one deftly and threw it back.

"Go away, or I will hex you!"

Two or three boys elbowed each other, and then one of them pulled out a pea shooter. The sharp bite of a pebble dug into her arm, then another, until Josephine could do nothing more than cover her face. When they stopped, she lowered her arms cautiously, only to see one of them climbing up into the tree with her. He held something long, bumpy, and green with dozens of fang-like teeth.

# - # - # - # - #

Had the screaming not alerted Erik, the sight of his cousin running through the streets with a baby alligator attached to her dress certainly would have.

"Get it off me! Get it off me!"

She was running in the opposite direction, but he caught up with her quickly, almost tackling her to the ground. She turned in shocked silence, her face going pale when she saw who was holding her.

"Josephine, be silent! It's just a little one," Erik said, releasing her to try and disentangle the ill tempered beast. "It won't...dammit...let go, you little bastard."

"They put it on my dress, and threw rocks at me, and I fell out of the tree," Josephine blubbered, tears and blood running down her face.

Erik concentrated on freeing the alligator, who snapped at him once he'd pried it off her dress. With care, he set it on the street, and it immediately took off at a remarkable pace for one so small.

"Who threw rocks at you?" he asked, brushing bits of leaves out of her hair.

Her scraped face set into a sullen scowl, Josephine pointed down the street to a group of boys who were doubled over, laughing.

"Rich French snob! Rich French snob!" they chanted, then ran around the corner before Erik could move.

"Th-they think I'm stupid," she said angrily. "I hate them! I don't like it here!"

"Josephine, they don't think you're stupid."

"Yes they do! Just like in Lille!"

Erik reached in his pocket for a handkerchief, cursing when he realized he'd left it with Christine on the boat. Doing his best to wipe her face with his thumbs, he peered down at her.

"Josephine, they don't think you're dumb. They were calling you a rich French snob, which is precisely what their parents think that _I_ am. These other children have no idea that you can't read or write in _any_ language." He let her go as she wiped at her own face, still set in hurt and anger. "Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

She shook her head, beginning to glare at him.

Hesitantly he reached for her hand, "Josephine, you can do anything that you want here. They don't know that you haven't been to school in France. They assume because you cannot speak their language, or choose not to, that you think yourself above _them_."

She stopped glaring.

"If you work very hard, no one will ever know that you can't read," he added softly. "And with the tutor I have in mind, working only with you, I believe you can be the smartest girl in all of Savannah. Maybe, even farther than that."

"What would I have to do?" Josephine whispered, her eyes dropping to the street.

Erik's heart seemed to slow, anger and sickness washing over him along with realization. The expression on her face, the way she wouldn't look at him...

_"Nothing,"_ he uttered, his voice a harsh, broken chord. "Don't ever think that of me, Josephine. You never have to do anything to please me. I will never touch you. _Ever_. Do you understand_ that?_"

Her face colored in shame, and her eyes squeezed shut. He wanted to gather her in his arms, to protect her forever. He wanted to resurrect his father, just to strangle the life from him. It was obvious that he'd embarrassed her, but now all Erik could think of was making her see that she was safe.

"Josephine, I know how horrible it was for you with my parents," Erik said softly. "I can't tell you how many times I wished my father dead. I hated him as a boy. I hate him all the more for ever hurting you, but _I_ will never hurt you."

Erik choked, disgrace for his family blinding him. A thousand more beatings, a million nights without food - he would have endured anything to have saved this girl. If only he had stayed, or returned or had had the courage to do either. All he could feel right now was hurt, ripping into him, and rage darkening a path to his heart.

Grappling with control, Erik finally looked back up at her.

"Why are you out here alone?" he rasped. "Where are Christine and Bernadette?"

She pointed at the hotel. "Juliette is ill. Madame Giry brought her a doctor."

* * *

Erik ushered Josephine up the stairs, disregarding the scandal he would cause by entering Christine's hotel room. Bernadette was pacing in front of an open doorway to a darkened bedchamber. She came to an abrupt stop the moment she saw him, an order for him to leave evident on her tongue, until she saw Josephine.

"My goodness, what happened to you?" she demanded, rushing forward. "You've blood on your cheek - and your dress! Josephine!"

"Some children in town," Erik said quietly. Bernadette looked at him, anger burning in her eyes. "I recognized a couple of them. Will you see to it first thing tomorrow morning?"

"Of course," Bernadette said stiffly.

Christine came out of the room, her gaze shooting from Erik to Josephine. "Another fight?" she asked, opening her arms. "Are you hurt?"

The girl locked her hands behind Christine's waist, fearing she was going to be sent away. "I fell out of the tree," came a muffled reply. "I'm sorry..."

"You've nothing to apologize for," Christine replied, stroking the top of her head.

"I tore my dress."

"I'll buy you a new one," Christine returned immediately. "Let Greta bandage you up, then you can lie down for awhile."

Reluctantly Josephine let her go, and Christine felt her emotions draw tight when she looked back to Erik. She didn't want to believe he would enter her room, then of course, when would he have had time? He'd only just returned from the Paumard's, and Erik had spent all morning with her and Josephine.

Which left Lesley, and Christine certainly did not wish to accuse her of anything, especially after the trouble she had already caused. With a frown, she realized that Lesley had been with them at the Paumard's the first time her hotel had been broken into. Perhaps she was reading too much in to her suspicions. Maybe she hadn't left her things exactly the way she remembered, perhaps Juliette's illness wasn't the result of mysterious plotting. It was a relief to imagine that, and nothing more.

"Is Madame Dvorak going to be alright?" Erik asked.

"She's...she's fine," Christine replied carefully. "We think she may have accidentally taken too much laudanum." Bernadette shot her a strange look, and Christine pretended not to see it. "I should probably get back to her, to make sure she doesn't become ill again. It seems to be wearing off, but it's upsetting her stomach very much."

"Of course." Erik stared at her a moment, coming to a decision. "I'd like Josephine to come and stay with us for a night or two, with her consent of course. She needs to become accustomed to it."

"Oh." Christine nodded, disappointed, and worried about what Josephine's response would be. "I'll ask her in the morning then. Bernadette, thank you for your help earlier. I assure you, this is not like Juliette – not at all."

Erik shrugged off his annoyance as Christine nearly pushed them from the room, distress apparent in her eyes. With a start, he realized he hadn't even broached the subject of that blasted diamond.

# - # - # - # - #

Inspector Julus Martin's first business in Savannah was a brief, slightly productive visit to the local police department. It had led him directly to Daina Christensen, though the information obtained from the balding, portly officer on duty had been unfavorable to her. Apparently the diva had made no great friends in Savannah – something about securing a romance with the fiancé of the district Judge's daughter – who also happened to be a French emigrate. Inspector Martin had spent the last few weeks scouring the streets of Paris, looking for a woman who matched the Antwerp Constable's description of the person who had been seen fleeing his Uncle's house. He still didn't know who he was chasing – or what the criminals themselves were after.

The streets of Paris had led him to the docks of Le Havre, and there an old shipping clerk had told him again of a woman with dark hair and eyes the shade of spring glass, always wearing widow's attire. And she had been asking – no demanding – to know if two opera singers had booked passage on any ship out of France.

Indeed they had, and the woman had booked her own passage. Like Gretel's forgotten breadcrumbs, Julus had followed her to Savannah. There, the trail had ended, but another window had opened. A break in had occurred at Daina Christensen's old hotel – and she had promptly moved her things to the Marshall.

_Voilá_

# - # - # - # - #

Determined not to leave Juliette alone, nor her belongings, Christine slept in the sitting room. By morning, Josephine had crawled onto the sofa with her, and they were both uncomfortable. Christine stumbled to her feet, settled Josephine back down on the sofa, and went to see how her friend was faring. Juliette was awake, her legs pulled over the side of the bed, but without enough strength to rise.

"How do you feel?" Christine asked, smoothing away Juliette's sweat dampened hair. "You had a terrible night."

"And it will be a terrible morning," Juliette predicted dourly. "My mouth feels like I've been eating sand."

"Morphine always did that to you," Christine replied lightly.

Juliette blinked, then gave her a startled look. "Morphine? I haven't taken any morphine." She shook her head, "I don't even have any. Carlos threw the last of it out ages ago, and I've never bought more. Why would you think that?"

Christine crossed her arms. "Because you've been asleep for nearly an entire day, your pupils were dilated, and once the little bit of food had passed through your system, you began vomiting violently." She could have added that now Juliette was trembling all over, and she'd been sweating profusely, but she could see her old friend getting worried.

"I have not taken morphine, I tell you! I don't need it any more!"

Shutting the door to her room so as not to awaken Josephine, Christine then knelt at her side. "Juliette – do you recall who brought in your food while Greta was gone to the docks?"

"No. Why?" she asked suspiciously.

"Nothing, it's just odd, that's all. Our room has been vandalized once, now this. And..."

"And what?" Juliette prompted, her eyes narrowing. "Do you think Greta did this?"

"No!" Christine nearly laughed, picturing her superstitious, over imbibing maid riffling through her things and poisoning Juliette. Greta had been with her for years now, and was as faithful as any dear friend. She'd been trusted with more money and secrets than any maid ought – if she really wanted to rob them, she would be wise to use blackmail, and not outright theft. She'd get far more daring to spill secrets. "No, I just felt like someone had been in my room here. It's just something..."

Christine blew out a breath, and waved a hand through the air dismissively. "Oh, never mind. I'm just glad that you're alright. Perhaps it would be best if we did not eat or drink anything from the menu here, just to be safe."

"Well find me something to drink then," Juliette nearly groaned. "I feel like I'm dying, and I can only imagine it's going to get worse."

# - # - # - # - #

The small café across the street was teeming with customers, and Christine nearly had to shout to be heard over the chatter of several men in a booth together. As she waited for her order, she stared at a mural on the wall, dedicated to the heroes of Savannah, the brave soldiers who had fought in the Confederacy. She'd read the same row of names several times, wondering why countries fought against each other, when a short statured man in a pale blue suit stopped in front of her, his expression one of polite interest.

"You're that singer everyone is yammerin' on about," he stated in a deep, southern drawl.

"I suppose that I am," Christine replied, feeling a little out of place as a few people began to stare. "And your name, Sir?"

"Beau Pruitt. I'm the music teacher in these parts. From here, clear to Atlanta," Mr. Pruitt stated boldly. "Or what's left of her anyway."

"Ah." Interesting. This man was Erik's competition, if such a thing were possible. "What is it you teach, Mr. Pruitt? Voice? Piano?"

"I teach it all, Miss..."

"Christensen," she said decidedly.

"I thought that was your first name," he said, looking confused.

"Oh, well..." Christine frowned, not liking people knowing her real name. It was best never to be tied to Paris again, and she had worked very hard to cultivate her image. "My real name is known by only those closest to me. You may call me Miss Christensen, if you please."

"Then I shall." He gestured to the counter. "Are you here to pick up something for your former teacher?"

"Yes. Not for Monsieur Jeunet," she added quickly, catching a perverse gleam in his eyes, "but for Madame Juliette Dvorak. We're traveling together, and she's feeling quite ill..."

"I see." Mr. Pruitt tapped a finger against his chin. "You know, Miss Christensen, I believe a singer of your caliber might be just the thing to open a performance that my students will be giving. What would you say to such an opportunity?

_I'd say I wouldn't be caught dead singing for you, even if I _could_ hold a bloody note._

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Pruitt. I'm retired now," Christine said, ready to leave without her food if need be. "Please exc-"

"Retired?" he interrupted swiftly. "But why?"

A glance around the room revealed that people were not only listening, they were blatantly staring. The silence in the room was limited to the dining area alone, and the rattle of dishes was clearly heard in place of the previous chatter.

"I had a bout with pneumonia, I'm afraid. Terrible for my lungs. Now Mr. Pruitt, if you will kindly step asi-"

"Your teacher, Mr. Jeunet..."

His words and tone stopped her immediately. "Yes? What of him?"

"He's quite the music teacher, isn't he?" Mr. Pruitt glanced around the room, sudden arrogance crossing his expression. "In fact," he added louder, "I hear that his students tend to be a little darker than normal, and that he can't hold his temper long enough to teach real children how to play music."

"Real children?" Christine repeated softly.

Pruitt nodded quickly, his hair falling across his face. "Yes, Miss Christensen. Real _white_ students. Those darkies don't count."

Christine had fantasies of slapping him, and taking a whip to him the way someone had apparently done with Viola. The war had ended here long ago, which meant Viola had likely been a child when she received most of those scars. It would solve nothing to do Mr. Pruitt violence now, and would undoubtedly bring Viola and her family trouble if she attacked him, but nothing could make Christine hold her tongue about Erik.

"Your own students should be so lucky as to have a man like Erik Jeunet teaching them," she said, leaning over to glare at him. "Not only is he a dedicated and brilliant musician, he is entirely self taught, which in my estimation, makes him far superior to anyone who earned an education sitting behind a desk."

"Self taught?" the man dared to splutter. "My God, he isn't even qualified!"

Christine brought herself to eye level with him, no small feat considering he barely crested her shoulder. "He taught me, didn't he?" She glanced scornfully down at him. "And all before you were out of your mother's apron strings, no doubt. Now, I hope you will excuse me this time?"

She straightened, looking for the exit. A man with wide shoulders stood in the doorway, blocking her from leaving. As he half turned, a powerful emotion gripped Christine, tossing her nerve endings into another sort of fray. With narrowed golden eyes, and a hand gripping a black and silver cane as if it was soon to become a weapon, he looked ready to punish someone.

It was Erik. And he'd apparently heard everything.


	47. A Little Bit of Everything

"Have you lost your mind?" Erik asked, nearly dragging Christine back to the hotel. "Do you have any idea who those people were?"

"I can come up with a name for them," Christine offered, wiggling out of his grip, "but I don't think you'd approve."

Erik glanced around the lobby before preceding her upstairs, torn between indignation and elation. Outside her door, indignation won.

"I do not need a woman to come to my defense, Mademoiselle Daae. Your interference is neither needed, nor welcomed."

Christine stepped around him, unlocking the door to her room. "Forgive me if I sound rude, but I don't give a damn. That idiot deserved much more than my sharp tongue, and he's very lucky I didn't set him down a notch or two."

"Set him down?" Erik repeated, gaping at her. "You _have_ lost your mind."

"Hardly." She sent him a withering glare, and took the cafe's bundle away from him. "Give me that. I can see you've already squished my muffins."

"I do not appreciate what you just did in there."

Christine refrained from rolling her eyes. "If I've emasculated you, by all means run back over there and throttle that twit. If I feel charitable later, I might go post your bail."

Erik glared at Christine, but she was busy inspecting the bag of muffins. She scrunched her nose as she pulled out what once had possibly been a blueberry muffin, and set it on a serving tray.

"Furthermore, he might ought to rethink his choice of musicians to criticize," she said airily. "I doubt he can play half as well as you."

Despite the glow of flattery, Erik was still angry, though it was difficult to remain that way after what she had told Pruitt. "You can't spout off like that around here, Christine."

"Fine. Next time I'll let him think he's better than you," Christine replied with a shrug.

"He's a published composer, Christine. How could you possibly think that I could outplay him?"

She turned, her expression one of annoyance. "Because I have yet to see anyone who can outplay you, and I highly doubt his little fingers can fly across keys or strings like yours. He probably has to sit on a dictionary just to see the sheet music."

Unwillingly a smile cracked across Erik's face, and he handed her the other bag of goods. Pride welled up inside of him, and it was a struggle not to allow her to see how much those words meant to him. "I'm surprised to see that you have such a temper, but please retain it next time."

"It won't be easy," she warned, setting out the rest of their breakfast. "I'm not meek, quiet Christine anymore."

"You've turned into Carlotta, have you?"

Christine flushed. "Not quite that bad, and I'll thank you not to say it again."

Josephine appeared in the doorway of Juliette's room, staring at both of them. "She's ill again, Christine."

"I'll be there in a moment." She waited until Josephine had left, then glanced back to Erik. "I haven't had a chance to speak with her yet about...about staying with you."

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you both about something else, when you have a moment."

Erik made no move to leave, and Christine pointed to the plate of muffins. "Make yourself comfortable then. I'm afraid I might be awhile."

# - # - # - # - #

The sound of retching made Erik want to leave, not to mention the smell. He was standing near the open window, hoping for a breeze that wouldn't come, when the sounds finally ceased, and the door to Madame Dvorak's bedroom opened. Christine came out, tired, and with her own clothes soiled. She looked half surprised to see him, then uttered a small groan.

"I'm sorry, I thought you might have left. She's still not feeling well."

"Not a problem. You might think of...changing."

Christine glanced down in disgust at her dress, then darted into another bedroom.

Another half hour later she came out, combing her now damp hair. Erik thought of crossing the room to stop her, but the lady's maid followed her out, wielding a handful of pins. Christine winced as she began what was an obviously long process to tame.

"I'm sorry. I know you probably have a hundred things you'd rather be doing, but if you wait until Greta is done..."

"It's fine," he cut in, though he could think only of one or two things, and they both involved Christine. "I wanted to ask you about something that Josephine has."

Christine's head was bent at an awkward angle, but she managed to look at him. "Such as?"

"The thing that Francois's daughter had. I believe she called it a 'bauble'."

"Oh, that. Josephine isn't upset over it any longer. I'm sure it won't be a problem when you go back to visit them."

"I'd like to see it, Christine," Erik said patiently.

"See it?" she lifted her head, wincing as Greta pulled her hair. "Whatever for?"

"Are you saying no?"

"Am I saying...?" she trailed off, looking at him strangely. "Josephine! Could you come here, please?"

Immediately her charge came out of Juliette's room, looking wary. "Yes, Christine?"

"May I see the thing that the little girl took away from you while you were sleeping?"

"Why? It's just a piece of glass."

Christine held out her hand, a patient look upon her face. "I just want to see it. I'll give it back."

Josephine reached into her pocket, drawing out a large, triangular shaped object, the color of fresh violets. Christine's lips parted in surprise as Josephine dropped it in her hand, the cool, heavy weight of it making her hand dip slightly.

"A piece of glass?" Erik repeated, moving forward for a closer look. "I don't think so."

"This isn't...I mean...it's not a...why...?" Christine stammered, holding the rock up so it sparkled in the light. "I don't believe this."

"You've never seen it before?" Erik asked doubtfully.

"Well, I knew she had something, but I've never paid attention to it."

"Did I do something wrong?" Josephine asked, her tone small.

"No...not unless..." Christine passed the diamond to Erik, allowing him to look. "Josephine, do you remember where you got it?"

"In the rabbit," Josephine replied, biting her lip.

"The rabbit?" Erik quizzed.

"The one I bought in Antwerp?"

Josephine nodded, her gaze going back to the rock. "What is it?"

"It's a diamond. A very rare diamond," Erik murmured.

Christine took it again, turning it over in her hand. "Are you sure? It's not paste?"

"Francois doesn't think so. And after seeing it now, I'm inclined to agree." Erik looked at Josephine as her expression began to crumple.

"I wanted to keep it," she pleaded to Christine.

"Ah, Josephine, you can't keep something like this. Even I could not keep something like this," Christine said softly. She looked back to Erik quickly, understanding quite suddenly why she'd been thinking herself cursed. "The break in at the hotel - someone was looking for this."

"That's one theory," Erik muttered, still half wondering if Lesley's father might have had something to do with it.

"And Juliette's illness..."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Juliette does not take morphine, but that is precisely what I think is wrong with her right now. And it was no mere dose; she's never been this sick before."

"Someone drugged her?" Erik demanded, his jaw tightening. "You're just telling me this now?"

"Well, I had no way of knowing," Christine replied, gesturing to the diamond. "I didn't want to accuse anyone..."

"Such as?"

Christine faltered a moment, then closed her mouth, refusing to say what, or rather whom, she had suspected. But Erik's eyes half closed, and he nodded.

"I see. You thought it was me? Is that why you rushed me out of the room so quickly last night?"

"No._ No. _You were at the Paumard's when my hotel was vandalized, and with me when Juliette was drugged."

"But you thought of me, didn't you, Christine?" Erik pressed, towering over her.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "Please don't be angry with me."

He looked away, his mouth a hard, flat line. "It disappoints me," he replied, then lifted a shoulder. "No matter. I was about to ask you if you'd taken up gem smuggling, so I suppose that we are even."

"You thought that I stole it?"

"How else?"

"Erik, I found it exactly three minutes ago. I haven't had time to even think of how it came to be inside Josephine's stuffed rabbit. Speaking of which," Christine added, turning to Josephine, "where is the rabbit?"

"I couldn't find it after we moved here," Josephine replied, her eyes fixated on her bauble. "Can I have that back now?"

"I don't think..."

"Here." Erik plucked it from Christine's palm and handed to his cousin. "You may keep it, on one condition."

"Erik! It's a stolen diamond, worth a fortune!"

"She's kept it all this time. I don't see her losing it," he replied.

"What condition?" Josephine asked mulishly.

"You have to stay at the house with Bernadette and me."

Josephine's eyes grew round as saucers, and she immediately shook her head. "No."

"You can't bribe her into doing your bidding," Christine admonished, taking the girl by the shoulders. "Josephine, remember what we talked about? I'm not leaving you, but moving into the house with Bernadette and Erik has always been in store. I think that you should, considering the circumstances." She turned to shoot Erik a disgusted look. "Not because your cousin says that you can _hold_ the diamond for _safekeeping_."

"We don't know who it belongs to. As far as I'm concerned, she can have it."

"Someone is going through a bit of trouble to find it. I think we should turn it over to the police department."

Erik scoffed loudly. "Of course. They'll be happy to put it into their own pockets. If you're that concerned in getting rid of it, throw it in the river."

"Do you trust anyone?" Christine asked, exasperated.

"Do you?" he shot back. "Josephine, gather your things, if you intend to come with me. Bernadette has spent all morning preparing a bedroom, and she's very excited that you're coming to stay with us."

Josephine hesitated, looking worriedly to Christine.

"You can choose to come back at any time," Erik reassured her softly. "Think of it as a new beginning."

"I'll come and help you settle in," Christine offered, brushing her hair back. "Juliette will likely be out the rest of the day."

"You and Juliette should come as well. It isn't safe for you here," Erik stated.

"What, and ruin the rest of my reputation?" Christine returned coolly. "I will be staying right here, thank you."

Christine could see the near panic in the girl's eyes though, and something odd tightened in her chest. Until now, she had not realized how much her own happiness was dependent on Josephine's. For years she had always thought of this girl and Erik in the same breath. No one had been able to save Erik all those years ago, though it was her understanding that Bernadette had tried her very best.

It was not too late for Josephine.

Somehow Erik had found his path, and Josephine would do the same.

* * *

The room Bernadette had provided Josephine was bright and cheerful, decorated in a soft yellow. A bouquet of fresh gardenias sat on a dresser beside her canopied bed, which had the usual mosquito netting swathed in layers down to the floor. Josephine stood staring, obviously not sure what to say.

It was undoubtedly the first time she had ever truly had anything of her own, and Erik had great difficulty not reaching out to her. Christine caught his gaze, unable to look away at the regret in his eyes.

"This is mine?" Josephine repeated slowly.

"All yours," Erik confirmed, his voice catching a little. "What do you think?"

Josephine's eyes immediately sought out the door, and then she looked back to her cousin. "Can I have a lock? With my own key?"

Erik drew up short, completely stung, and more than a little furious. "You can have whatever you want," he whispered though bloodless lips, then stalked out of the room.

Christine and Bernadette stared after him helplessly, but it was Christine who rushed out the door, needing to soothe his hurt. He'd taken refuge in the music room, but was not sitting at the piano. With his back turned, she could see a slight trembling in his hands – and she wondered if he always struggled so hard for control.

"It will take time for her to trust you," Christine said quietly. "For her to trust any man."

"Yes, but I'm particularly frightening to her, aren't I?" Erik returned, sparing her a brief glance. "I can only imagine what my parents told her about me, and combined with..." He stopped, unable to mention his father's despicable actions. "Perhaps I should go on and find another residence. I have no wish to subject myself to such mistrust every single day."

"That will solve nothing," Christine replied, standing beside him at the window. "She needs a family. Do you not have patience for her, the way that you had with me?"

"You thought I was an angel. Josephine knows the truth."

"And what truth is that?" Christine questioned him sharply.

He didn't answer, just continued to stare out the window with a sullen expression on his face.

"You were my greatest friend, and I trusted you unquestioningly," Christine said, hesitantly touching his arm. "I know that you can break through with Josephine. Don't try so hard. Let her come to you."

Erik finally met her gaze, emotion flickering in the golden depths of his eyes. "How can you have so much faith in me? I betrayed your trust. I've done terrible things to you. And to others. I don't deserve..."

It was something Christine had been wanting for far too long, and it suddenly felt right, so she kissed him. She felt the sharp, indrawn breath and shock that her actions caused in him, and no less did she feel the floor as it dropped beneath her own feet. For the briefest moment their eyes met, longing surging through both and drawing them near again. Her hands slid up, gripping his shoulders, and with a cautious mixture of desire and curiosity, Christine parted her lips, wanting to taste him.

A shaking hand settled lightly against her spine, and Erik tilted her chin with the other, his nervousness apparent in ways that hers was not.

Whispering her name, he deepened the kiss, utterly lost. The bewitching spell was one Erik did not wish to escape, and if it was a dream, he had no desire to wake from it. The only desire was for Christine, and the culmination of every fantasy he'd had since she arrived, was imminent with this moment - or at least one part of him thought so.

The other, rational part, the same one which had been so thoroughly rejected, remembered the first time she had kissed him - the kiss of pity but not love. He could not stop the resurrection of that pain. It killed his desire, but opened another vulnerable part of his heart that he did not wish for her to see.

Breaking the kiss, he held her close, willing himself to regain control.

"You should not have done that," he whispered, quivering inside and out.

"Shall I apologize?" Christine murmured, daring to look up at him. The response in his eyes set her aflame, and his arms tightened around her almost painfully. "I'm sor..."

A gentle, lingering kiss silenced her.

"It would be best if you did not continue that sentence," Erik said, his voice turning deep.

"But I..."

"Don't say anything at all."

Christine closed her mouth promptly, shivering as his hands ran up and down her back, then her arms, squeezing and caressing intimately, making her feel strange inside. He guided her head against his chest, and she smiled, loving that he was so tall, broad, warm. This was where she had wanted to be, what she had wanted to feel with him. When leaving Paris, it had not been love that she had felt at the time, but only so much heartache and confusion that she hadn't understood a thing about him.

Now, standing before him, Christine had the unquestioning knowledge of what she wanted, and what she needed.

Only the courage to tell him failed her, and all too soon he was taking her by the shoulders and setting her away.

"We should go downstairs," Erik said, staring into her eyes.

"Undoubtedly."

"Bernadette..."

"...is looking for us," Christine finished, blushing to her roots.

Erik gave her a crooked smile. "Bernadette is preparing dinner." He sniffed the air, just once. "Vegetable soup, I do believe."

"Oh." Quickly her mind turned to Juliette, who was no doubt still quite ill. Poor Greta. She would probably quit within the next week after all she'd had to do. "I need to return to the hotel. Juliette..."

"Bernadette can send something home with you," Erik said, finally stepping away from her, and the temptation to kiss her senseless again. "We eat quite a few vegetables. After the war, neither one of us wanted much to do with eating animals again."

Christine blanched, remembering the accounts of what Paris had suffered through, and the things citizens had been forced to eat. "It was just as horrible as the papers said, wasn't it?"

"Every bit of it."

"I wish that I had stayed. I wish that I could see Meg, one last time." She closed her eyes, picturing her friend's sunny smile, or the way she thought everyone was going to tell her mother on her for eating sweets. Feeling the sting of tears, Christine hurriedly pressed a hand over her eyes. "Yes, let's go see where Bernadette is," she said briskly.

"Christine, you _can_ talk about her. Maybe not to Bernadette," he added, turning his palms up slightly, "but sometimes...I think about her too. I miss her, just like I missed you."

She went back into Erik's arms, embracing him fiercely, feeling a shuddering breath as it left him.

"Thank you."

"Thank you," he breathed, already wanting to kiss her again.

_# - # - # - # - # - #_

Erik's heart continued to pound as Christine walked downstairs with him, and her shy, blushing glances inspired more wickedness in his imagination. She'd probably had more skilled lovers than he cared to think about, but it did not stop him from wanting her. It frightened him, to think of her discarding his feelings, or casting him into the sea of faces who had been in her bed. What they shared was different, or at least to him it was, but he had no way of truly knowing what she intended.

On Bernadette's orders, Erik escorted Christine back to the hotel, carrying a large, steaming bowl of soup for Juliette. Christine hurriedly unlocked the door, bathing the sitting room in light.

"You can set it here," she said, clearing away a table in front of the sofa.

His hands relieved of their burden, he had nothing better to do as she peeked in at Juliette, other than to wait anxiously for her return. Outside it had grown dark, and fireflies danced in the streets with their little green lights, blinking near and far.

"Greta is asleep too," Christine whispered, tiptoeing out of the room. She closed the door behind her, then stared uncertainly at him. "You should probably go. The hotel manager did not look pleased to see you..."

"I don't care."

Christine's lips parted as Erik strode across the room, his hand threading through her hair and framing her faced as he kissed her again, harder than before, a sensual, lazy movement of his mouth against hers. His tongue stroked hers, drawing a thready moan from her body. He pulled away for a moment, dragging pins out of her hair, until it was falling down around her shoulders, and he'd inhaled the sweet fragrance of it.

"Perfect," he whispered.

"Erik..."

"I want you," he muttered passionately.

She gasped as he nuzzled her neck, the shock of it going down to her toes. Somehow she found enough sense to pull away.

"We can't," Christine panted, staring up at him. "I...I can't..."

His expression turned from hot to cold in an instant, and she knew his thoughts before he opened his mouth.

Gripping the sleeve of his coat so he could not turn away, she took a deep breath.

"I am not a light skirt. I won't have an affair with you while the entire town is watching, waiting for you to make a mistake."

"You are not a mistake," Erik denied angrily.

"Do you want Bernadette to hear of you spending the night in my hotel room? Or Lesley?"

Years of desire raged against the rational, responsible voice in his head. No, he did not want Lesley to know of this. As far as he was concerned, nothing had been solved with her, and therefore, it was entirely wrong for him to be here with Christine.

_But it felt so perfect._

"I'm not quite as experienced as you obviously believe," Christine added, crossing her arms over her chest. "Not every opera singer or performer is a whore."

He flinched, regret in his eyes. "I never meant to imply that."

"No, but like everyone else, you've thought about it," she replied, her tone cool. "If you want the truth, my voice is damaged because I pushed myself too hard, and made myself ill. The managers believed that I should have been more _accommodating_ to their patrons, and I did not agree. I decided if I could not retain my position based on my legitimate talents, then I had no business singing in their theater."

"There are other theaters," Erik said, though he did not look as angry as she imagined he would be. In fact, he looked rather pleased, though no doubt it was to her confession of not being a seductress. She could not bring herself to tell him that of the four or five gentlemen who had kissed her, not one of them had ever tempted her to lose her innocence even half as much as he did right now. "How could you do that to your voice? After we worked so hard to perfect it?"

"I didn't want to be forgotten," Christine replied, softly. "I loathed touring, because I hated to travel, and I had already earned the reputation of being anti – social. I loved to sing, but I was not what the managers wanted after the curtain fell."

"That's absurd. They never would have gotten away with that in _my_ theater."

Amused by his tone, Christine couldn't help but smile. "It's getting late," she reminded him.

Glancing out the window, Erik felt nothing but irritation to see that she was right. "Do you have plans for tomorrow?"

"Not at the moment."

"I have a lesson tomorrow with young Joseph. I want you there not ten minutes after he leaves, so that I can determine the extent of damage to your voice."

"Erik..."

"You will not move me on this," he stated matter of factly. "Even if you never perform again, I will hear you sing."

"I've decided not to return to opera. Why do you think I've taken such an extended leave? It's been a year and a half now..."

"Tomorrow," he repeated, leaning down to brush a kiss across her lips.

With a last regretful look, Erik left, instructing her to secure the door. She heard him jiggle the knob just as she locked it, then the faint sounds of his footsteps going down the narrow hall.

Alone, Christine couldn't stop smiling in flushed, joyful remembrance of their kisses. He was excellent at that, of making her weak kneed with just a touch, of arousing feelings she had not thought she would ever have for a man. Raoul had never caused such a disturbance of her sanity, and Roman, handsome though he had been, couldn't quite stir her senses the way Erik just had. There had been a few kisses stolen by patrons, and by admiring fans, but none had delivered such promise of sensual pleasure.

Shaking her head as she entered her room, Christine felt pins dangling from various sections of her hair. She flipped her head over, gently disentangling them, otherwise her hair would be in knots come morning.

A small movement caught her eye at the lower half of the floor length mirror, and her gaze was suddenly riveted to the reflection of her closet.

Standing in the darkness was a figure in bulky clothing, a pale face hidden beneath a cloak, and in the faint light a dull gleam of silver flashed against the mirror, throwing a white shadow on the floor. Christine's heart stuttered inside her chest, and she turned quickly, backing against the dresser.

"Who are you?" she demanded fearfully.

"You've stolen from me, Mademoiselle Christensen," a menacing, feminine voice whispered.

"L-Lesley?"

Laughter floated from the shadowy figure, and she stepped forward, the knife rising in threat. "This is far more valuable than any man, though I have to say, you've certainly been entertaining to watch."

"The diamond?" Christine asked, her eyes widening. "You're after the diamond?"

"Now we're getting somewhere," the woman said, lunging forward as Christine darted toward the door.

The knife sliced through Christine's flesh, and she lashed out instinctively, her hand connecting with the woman's face. Stunned, her attacker staggered backward, and Christine felt anger surge through her.

With a cry rivaling an Indian yell, Christine tackled the woman to the floor, knocking the knife out of her hand.

"No!" the woman shouted, trying to throw her off, not about to be taken down by a pampered little diva.

Christine pressed a knee into her attacker's back, and twisted an arm behind her back. "You tried to poison Madame Dvorak, you miserable witch! Don't think you can defeat me, merely because I'm a singer! I've been in more scraps than you might think!"

"Goodness! What is going on!" Greta demanded, rushing through the door.

Christine looked up at her, a wild gleam in her eyes. "Fetch the police, Greta. I've just caught our culprit!"

* * *

Well, no brawl in this chapter, but I think it had enough going on, lol. A kiss, some mayhem, oh...and a wrench thrown into my jewel plot. But don't worry. This story is nowhere near being over! 


	48. Always Beside Me

Monday morning did really well last time, plus I'm usually not up this early, so here you go! One of my favorite chapters.

* * *

Shattering glass and a scream – two things which could chill the blood of any man, especially one with the taste of a lover still on his lips, whistling a happy tune as he prepared to enter his carriage.

When Erik saw the pitcher of water come flying out of an upstairs window and smash onto the sidewalk – from the same general location that he judged to be Christine's room, his heart tripped violently inside his chest. It was the scream of a woman that made Erik bolt back inside and up the stairs, past a slew of startled guests and employees. Outside Christine's room, he threw his shoulder into the closed door without consideration of a knock or warning, then barreled though to her bedroom.

"I've got you, so stop struggling!"

"Get off of me!"

"Not...on...you...life!" came a frustrated reply.

"What the devil is going on?" Erik demanded, his eyes skimming around the room, the most obvious thing amiss was Christine sitting on top of another woman.

Christine turned her head, surprise written across her face. "I've caught the person who has been breaking into my room," she announced, one hand firmly planted at the back of a woman's head.

"This knife has blood on it!" Greta exclaimed, pointing towards an object on the floor.

Erik moved around until he was standing in front of Christine, his eyes immediately drawn to a dark red stain across the front of her chest. "You're hurt," he uttered, kneeling beside her.

"She took a swipe at me," Christine grunted, bearing down with all her weight. "Didn't you, you green eyed wench?"

"I was aiming for your throat," the woman replied flinging an elbow backwards into Christine's ribs. "For the last time...get off!"

Heaving upwards with her knees and shoulders, the woman finally succeeded in bucking Christine off.

Her victory was short lived as Erik grasped her around the arm and pushed her back down onto the floor.

"You aren't going anywhere."

"Be careful. She probably has another weapon." Panting, and this time for physical reasons, Christine glanced at her maid. "Greta, have you sent for the police?"

"Yes ma'am," the maid answered. "The manager said he'd bring them right around."

"Get a doctor too," Erik added, grabbing a blanket and pressing it against Christine's wound. She'd been cut a few inches below her neck, above her right breast. Christine gasped in pain as Erik tried to stem the flow of blood, and he felt more than slightly ill to see it spilling across her chest.

"I can manage," she moaned, turning away. "See that she doesn't move."

Erik removed one of the ropes on the drapes, then with a frown, he knelt next to the woman.

"It would be easier if you would just allow me to do this," he stated, having no wish to wrestle with her.

With a slight lift of an elegant shoulder, she gave him a sultry smile. "If tying a woman up is what does it for you, lad, I won't stop you."

After binding her hands behind her back, Erik tugged off the hood of the cloak, revealing a beautiful woman with dark hair and unforgettable eyes. It was the same woman he'd stared at so intently outside of Christine's other hotel, mistaking her for a widow.

This was no ordinary widow. If anything, she was a _black widow_, eager to devour a man to get whatever she wanted.

"Mmm," she breathed, arching her chest up a little. "You certainly know how to tie a knot, Monsieur Jeunet."

"Be quiet, or I'll stuff a rag into your mouth," Erik blurted out, feeling his face flame red at her suggestive tone.

A loud chatter of voices outside the door sent drew their attention, and the hotel manager suddenly appeared, looking ill at ease and trailed by an assortment of hotel staff and curious guests.

"What is going on in my hotel?" he demanded, glaring at all of them. "My other guests are _very_ upset."

"Your other guests?" Erik repeated, getting to his feet. "What about this one, attacked in her room by a thief? Or her companion, who was drugged just a few days ago? I would say, Sir, that right now your_other guests _should be the least of your concern."

"But...but they are both my guests!" the manager exclaimed, looking down at the glaring green eyed woman and then back to Christine.

"Who is she?" Erik demanded with a nod to the woman on the floor.

"I...I think she is registered under Miss Smith..."

"Of course she is," Erik muttered. "Your real name?"

She gave a saucy smile. "It's Miss Smith. Didn't you hear the man?"

"Erik, get these people out of my room," Christine muttered, trying to shield the fact that a very dear part of her had been nearly ripped open.

"Get out!" Erik commanded, too angry over the situation to be polite.

Immediately the room cleared, with the exception of the slightly trembling hotel manager.

Christine glared at the woman on the floor, still clasping the blanket to her wound.

"Well now that we are all intimately acquainted, could you please check on Juliette, Erik? I want to make sure she wasn't murdered in her sleep."

Catching the satisfied look of pleasure on the woman's face, Erik dashed across the suite, exhaling in relief when he could hear Juliette snoring. As he returned to Christine, the doctor arrived, along with a bleary eyed police chief. More than likely they had been playing cards together somewhere along Main Street, finding courage and answers in the bottom of their glasses.

"What do we have here?" Chief Monroe asked, running his hand along his belt. "Looks like our foreign guests are having themselves a reunion."

The doctor guffawed, setting his black case next to Christine. "Second time I've been here this week, Stanley. Maybe this time I won't be thrown out on my ear."

"Don't bet on it," Christine replied archly.

"Got quite a tongue on you, don't you, girl?" the doctor asked, removing the blanket from the wound. "And quite a cut. Any higher, she'd have slit your throat clean through!"

"This here's the weapon?" Chief Monroe asked, rather pointlessly. "Yessir. Quite a reunion you folks got going on!"

"Will you just get her out of here?" Erik asked impatiently. "We don't know who this woman is, or what she wants."

"Erik!" Christine protested, but he silenced her with a look.

"Why you rotten bastard," the woman said through clenched teeth, though he detected relief flooding through her eyes.

"I'll be needing your statement, Miss Christensen," the Chief said, hauling the woman to her feet. "And you, lovely lady. Well, you get to see what the inside of a real Savannah jail cell looks like."

"Ohh," the woman purred. "What else can I see?"

Erik curled his lip in disgust, knowing Stanley Monroe would show her anything that she wanted, and probably let her walk out carrying his keys twirled around her finger. A greater idiot never lived, except perhaps for his good friend, Doctor Tott. Their voices faded from his ears as he watched the doctor work patiently on Christine.

"I'll need you to remove your dress, Miss. The only thing that will close this is stitches."

Christine nodded, then looked at Erik pointedly. "_You_ may wait outside. Greta, I'll need your help."

# - # - # - # - # - #

"Twelve stitches," Christine said, wincing slightly as Greta buttoned up a clean dress. "And I thought this day couldn't have gotten any more exciting."

"I never heard a thing," her maid replied nervously. "I'm terribly sorry!"

"It's not your fault," Christine murmured, closing her eyes in exhaustion, though she knew Greta had likely polished off a good portion of wine, and wouldn't have heard an orchestra strike up any more than a sneaking little thief entering the room. "Has Juliette been asleep this whole time?"

"No, she was awake earlier, but being so ill has worn her out." Greta finished dressing her, and pulled her hair back with a ribbon. "What are we going to do? Are we going to stay here?"

"No."

Christine turned in surprise, finding her door open and Erik leaning against the frame. "I beg your pardon?"

"You are not spending another night in this hotel, nor in any other in Savannah. You're coming home with me, where you will be safe."

"Erik, it's not appropriate."

"Bernadette, Juliette, and your maid are suitable chaperons. I daresay there will be less scandal tied to your staying with us, than living out of this hotel."

"What about Lesley?" Christine asked softly.

Erik's expression was unreadable, and it took him a long time to answer.

"She chose to end our engagement. I can't speak for Lesley, but I can't allow you to stay here unprotected. What if that had been Josephine she'd attacked?"

Too tired to argue, Christine finally nodded. "Very well, but I want you to let her know - just in case."

"Greta, will you go down and speak to Mr. Moses? He's driving my rig. Tell him I'll pay him extra if he'll keep watch tonight."

"Where are you going to be?" Christine asked with a yawn.

"Right here. We'll make arrangements for Madame Dvorak, and the rest of your things, to be moved in the morning."

Erik could see Christine's eyelids getting heavy, and she was no doubt uncomfortable with the sling the doctor had given her to keep her arm from being jostled. He scooped her up gently, then set her back against the pillows on the bed.

"You scared the hell out of me tonight," he whispered, stroking her cheek. "When you screamed..."

Christine chuckled, her eyes half closed. "That wasn't me. I've been warned too many times never to scream like that. Remember?"

"I remember," Erik replied, looking away.

His gaze fell onto the bedside table, and an odd, sinking feeling entered his heart. Nearly hidden beneath a worn Hugo novel, was a leather bound journal that looked very familiar. Erik glanced at Christine, and her eyes were now completely closed. He slid the top book away with the tip of a finger, and stared at the now stained and weathered journal that he'd finished almost two decades ago.

Opening it, he found the bitter, angry words of a young man he'd never forgotten, and the beginnings of a certain madness that had possessed him. The start of love and obsession, and that unquenchable need for acceptance.

"That's mine."

He looked up to find Christine staring at him with wary eyes. "If you want to be precise about it, then this belongs to me," he returned.

Christine held out her hand, a stubborn expression crossing her features. "Give it to me, Erik."

"You had no right, stealing this from me," he whispered, his hand tightening over the journal. Deeply embarrassed did not begin to describe how he felt. This was personal, shameful. He'd written of his father's abuse and hatred, of the growing awareness of himself as a young man. Words of love, or what he'd thought at the time was love, for the girl he'd recently begun teaching.

"It's mine," she repeated, reaching out to take it from him, wanting to keep the object that had provided such comfort in all the years they had been apart. "Please. Let me have this back."

"Why, Christine?"

Christine just stared down at the journal until he let it go. Protectively she held it against her stomach, unwilling to let him have it again.

Hurt and confusion panned across Erik's face, but she could not imagine telling him the truth. She was afraid to reveal that little part of herself, even knowing that he had every right to keep something which belonged solely to him. She'd read his words a thousand times in those first few years, and even in recent ones would reach for the journal, just to be close to him once more.

"Have you shown this to anyone else?" he asked quietly.

Surprise flickered in her eyes, along with indignation. "Of course not. What would make you think that?"

"You weren't...reading it to Josephine?"

"No."

"You keep it at your bedside for what purpose then?"

"It puts me to sleep."

"Oh," he made a noise that wasn't quite a laugh. "I guess I should be relieved that it doesn't give you nightmares."

Almost lovingly, she caressed the smooth leather binding. "Erik, there is nothing in here to be ashamed of. I wanted to know everything about my teacher. I needed to know that my very dearest friend and mentor had not been trying to ruin me."

"What, I didn't accomplish that by destroying your chances with de Chagny? By burning down your home, and lying to you on a daily basis?"

"I thought we had agreed to leave the past behind," she reminded him softly. "Nothing can change the past. If we can't forget..."

She stopped, unwilling to say something she would regret. This was not what she wanted for them. Bringing up the fire and the scandal would drive them apart again, and no matter how much they talked about it, there would never be complete peace in that regard. Each of them had made mistakes, and they had to live with them.

"If it disturbs you to know that I have it, then here," Christine said, offering it to him. "I know it by heart. I don't need to read the words to feel you beside me any more."


	49. What Erik Wants

Erik watched from the broken hotel window as Mr. Moses helped Christine into the carriage and rolled off into the night. If not for Madame Dvorak then he would have been right there with her, shielding her from whatever danger she had become embroiled in. His driver would protect them. Mr. Moses was well versed in protecting his own family from Klan raiders in the dead of night. Watching out for thieves should be no problem – and if it was, Bernadette had reluctantly learned to wield a shotgun after a rabid raccoon had wandered into her kitchen for a daytime snack.

Still, Erik could not discard a restless feeling, and spent half the night pacing in Christine's sitting room. The secrets of her bedchamber tempted him, but there was not a place he wished to learn about Christine. Not again with prying and wild conjectures over a piece of jewelry, or some trinket a lover might have purchased for her. He wanted to hear from her own lips of where she had been, what she had seen, and how she had become a woman who could wrestle with a thief who'd stabbed her, in place of the curiously calm girl that might have died because of her complacent nature.

A sound from Madame Dvorak's room alerted Erik the moment that she awakened, and he peered cautiously inside to find her sitting up in bed, reaching for a pitcher of water. Her hands closed around the handle, but she could not lift it, exhaustion and perhaps a touch of old age making her limbs fail.

"Madame?" he said cautiously.

She turned, her face white and eyes large. "Monsieur?"

"I don't mean to alarm you," Erik murmured, wishing she had slept through the night. "You had a thief in your room earlier. Christine and her maid have gone to my house."

"Are they alright?" Juliette asked, trying not to stare at his face too intently as he came through the door. He was unmasked, and the sight of that red flesh was indeed a shock. Not as terrible as she'd imagined from Christine's heart wrenching story, but she could see why he'd become an outcast because of it.

"Christine was cut badly, but she will be fine," Erik replied, helping her drink.

Juliette took small, careful sips, not wishing to become sick again. Suddenly Erik remembered the soup that Bernadette had sent.

"It will be cold by now, but perhaps some broth? You look very weak."

Juliette made a face, but nodded. "You are too kind, Monsieur Jeunet."

"Erik," he corrected softly, then retrieved the bowl. Again he helped her, feeding her slowly until she refused more, then easing her back into the bed.

At first he thought she'd drifted off again, as the only light was coming through from the sitting room, and it did not touch upon her large form in the bed.

Then she began to speak, a tired voice, which both sorted everything in his mind, and muddled it further. Juliette told him about the girl her husband had identified as Christine Daae, and how that girl had warily triumphed once more, overshadowing yet another diva and causing an uproar in the world of opera. Erik smiled, picturing his Christine, slowly becoming both woman and soprano. She told him also of the last year of bitterness that had touched upon Christine's career. Nothing was mentioned of Christine's life before the start of her journey as Daina Christensen, and against everything that urged him to do so, Erik did not ask.

"She is such a good child to me," Juliette whispered, her voice growing hoarse. "I know that I set a terrible example, Monsieur. I know you think ill of me, and all that I've done. An old whore who had a great time, but is still on her way out of this world."

"I am sorry if I have judged you," Erik responded, feeling a sting of regret.

Juliette laughed softly, "I could not blame you for hating this," she said self piteously, the last few days creating a horrible strain on her usual jovial nature. "My Alberto, he was the only man who ever understood me, and I should have died with him."

"Christine needs you," Erik said, not knowing what else he could tell her.

"She doesn't need me any more." A weary sound escaped her lips, and Erik saw her eyes shining in the darkness. "The first few weeks that she came to live with us, we'd find her doing chores without our asking. She helped the staff cook and clean, and unless she was in training, stayed out of our way. Christine thought if she did not behave just so, that we'd send her away. She'd found her feet, only to lose them again for the promise of safety. We offered her a home, but she thought she had to earn it."

"Because we sent her away?" Erik asked, remembering the pain it had caused him when she had left, and how many times he'd wished to change the outcome of his own fate, if only to save Christine from the one unknown.

"Christine never blamed you for that," Juliette replied, seeking out his hand, which he cautiously gave. "I know everything, Monsieur. She's told me everything, and I can't tell you how much she hated herself for the things that happened. How much she still does."

"You mean the opera?"

Juliette squeezed his hand. "That too, but I was referring to her friend, Meg."

Puzzled, Erik tried to imagine what could have possibly made her feel responsible for Meg's death. That punishment was for Bernadette and him alone, a sentence that each of them lived out for ever having let her out of their sight. For him, because if he'd tried harder, they could have fled the city, or taken shelter in de Chagny's estate if he'd been more compromising, and for Bernadette, because Meg was her only daughter and she had failed to protect her.

"What happened to Meg was not Christine's fault," Erik replied, an undertone of sadness in his swift denial. "We would never blame her for that."

"It's strange, how grief can bend the mind," Juliette replied, her voice tiring quickly. "The Comte de Chagny resented her for the deaths of his parents. Christine thought Meg's mother would feel the same, because she is the one who lived."

Erik could think of nothing to say to that, wondering if this was the reason Christine had not married Raoul, or if her own mind had been made up the moment she discovered her voice again. So clearly he could see Christine's strength, and now recognized the vulnerable heart she had tried to hide. The journal, which he'd selfishly taken, was tucked into his jacket, and felt cumbersome over his breast. This had been her only link to the past, and he'd taken it away. He still didn't quite fathom what it meant to her, and what her words earlier had meant, but he felt a lifting of his heart when he recalled the way she'd clutched it protectively, as if what she held was the most precious thing in the world.

As Madame Dvorak drifted into exhausted slumber once more, Erik slowly perused the worn pages of his old journal, trying to read between the lines, and discover what riches his words had ever offered to Christine.

# - # - # - # - # - #

The days since she had ended their engagement had driven Lesley mad with emptiness, and the constant presence of her father did nothing to ease her mind. He'd been there every single day, harassing her maid, driving her insane with his smothering version of concern. Lesley was annoyed that she felt the need to hide in her own house with her father lurking downstairs, but she was doing just that when the sound of a horse in the yard made her peek outside.

Lesley was surprised to see Erik dismounting from his pinto gelding, his face apprehensive as he stared up at the house. For a moment their eyes met, until she heard the sound of her front door opening and closing, then her father's belligerent voice.

"You aren't welcome here, Mr. Jeunet. I suggest you get back in the saddle, and go home."

Lesley groaned, pushing away from the windowsill to race downstairs. Erik, as always ignored her father, and was still standing defiantly on the path leading to the house.

"I'm here to speak to your daughter," he said pointedly.

"No," the Judge stated quite firmly. "I believe you've caused enough damage."

"Father..."

Judge Brunn whirled around, his jowls shaking in anger as he stuck a finger in her face. "Go back inside, Lesley Ann. I will deal with this seducer of flesh. This indomitable beast who has broken your heart, and still has the gall to come back and do it again."

"Lesley, that's not why I'm here," Erik said, not sparing her father a glance. "A moment of your time, that's all I need."

"Get off of this property, or I'll have you arrested!" the Judge blustered furiously.

"Lesley," Erik repeated patiently, again ignoring him.

Lesley could feel the explosive rage in her father, and stepped between them. "I was expecting Erik this morning, Father. I want to speak with him," she said, hating the lie as it rolled off her tongue. She didn't really want to see him again, and the expression on Erik's face was not one of a man who'd come to his senses.

"I don't like this," her father said petulantly, looking at her as if she'd betrayed him. "I don't want that man anywhere near you again."

"Father, please," Lesley replied, her tone sharpening.

With one last contemptuous glare, he stormed back into the house, slamming her door like an overgrown child.

"I don't mean to cause you trouble," Erik said, stepping closer. "I'm sorry for everything. I truly am."

Lesley studied him a moment, remembering the rumor she'd heard yesterday of his little soprano defending him in Layton's cafe. Had it brought him satisfaction, or had he been as furious as everyone said he had looked, dragging Christine back to the hotel by the arm? In spite of her dislike for the woman who had ruined her wedding plans, Lesley could not help but feel a notch of respect for someone who had stood up to Beau Pruitt, obnoxious individual that he was. In the months since Erik had proposed, Beau had constantly made remarks about Erik's musical talents, and not once had she been able to defend him because she knew nothing about their line of work.

"Why don't you tell me why you're here, and make this quick?" Lesley asked, crossing her arms defensively.

Erik's gaze dropped, and he shuffled his feet. "Very well. I wanted you to hear this from me, instead of from the people in town."

"Oh? And what is that?"

"Mademoiselle Christensen was attacked last night in her hotel room with a knife. I have offered her and Madame Dvorak a safe place to stay."

For a moment Lesley said nothing, torn between a desire to berate him for stupidity and the urge to keep her dignity as he broke her heart even more. "I see," she replied, her tone sounding thin and unnatural. "Are they both alright?"

"Mademois..."

"Oh for heaven's sakes, I know you don't stand on formality with her, you needn't do it with me," she snapped before she could stop herself.

Erik cleared his throat, guilt causing his cheeks to flush. "Christine," he emphasized softly, "was cut below her neck, but she will be fine. Madame Dvorak has been feeling very ill the last two days, and we now think that she was drugged with morphine."

"Did the police catch whoever did it?"

Erik shook his head, a half smile curving his lips. "No, they didn't need to. Christine captured the woman..."

_"Woman?"_

"Yes, woman," he replied. "I just delivered Madame Dvorak to Bernadette. She's still very weak."

"Did Christine know her?" Lesley asked, immediately wondering if it was a jealous wife, or perhaps like her, an enraged ex – fiancée who had taken a swipe at the diva.

"No." Erik hesitated, and for a moment it looked like he would offer some version of the truth, but stopped himself. "I just wanted you to know that they will be staying with us. I didn't want you to think..."

"Does it matter anymore?" she cut in, raising her chin slightly. "I can't see how what you do concerns me any longer."

"I know how much this hurts," Erik whispered, his heart aching for her.

Lesley dropped her gaze to the ground, rubbing her toe across the dirt. After two years, she could not let him go as easily as he obviously had done with her, and the thought of a long, bleak existence without someone beside her was unbearable. Loneliness was the only thing which wrapped it's arms around her at night, and the pain of now knowing he'd always loved someone else was intolerable.

"You don't know a damn thing," Lesley replied, and without letting him see her tears, returned to her house, where memories of him continued to linger.

* * *

Erik had worked himself into quite a fury by the time he returned home, though it was solely anger at himself that inspired the black mood. How was it you could love someone so much, and not know that they might come back? Had he known that only two years would pass between the time he'd met Lesley and when Christine re-entered his life, would he have waited? A large part of him wanted to say yes, but as he recounted each memory with Lesley, each tangled, whispered sigh of pleasure, there was not a single thing that he regretted. He'd very much enjoyed what he had had with Lesley, and God above if there were a way to make things right, he would. Honor and love were at war inside of him, but when Lesley pushed him away, love won a little more each time. 

The respectable thing to do, if not marriage to Lesley, would be to wait an appropriate amount of time, and then begin to court Christine, if she was even agreeable to it. But how long was appropriate? From the haunted pain in Lesley's eyes, then never. It was unfathomable to him that someone, anyone, could love him as much as Lesley seemed to. She was certainly far more open with her feelings than Christine, but was any of it real? Had they just been two lonely people, who would have best remained man and mistress, or was he throwing away the only real, intimate relationship that he'd ever had, with a woman who cared for him deeply?

Not knowing the answers, Erik put away his horse but stood near the pasture gate, wary of Bernadette's milk goat that came forward to nibble at his pants.

"Women, eh?" he asked the old nanny. "I can't seem to escape you anywhere that I go."

She bleated at him, and threatened to head butt him until he moved a foot away from her. In a split second she was back, nudging him again.

"Keep that up, and I've half a mind to eat you," he said in warning.

"I beg your pardon?"

Erik turned with a scowl to see Christine and Josephine behind him.

"Were you just talking to that goat?" Christine asked incredulously.

"No," Erik denied immediately, feeling ridiculous, and wanting to mutter an 'I told you so' to the damned goat.

"She likes you," Christine commented, looking down at the ill tempered beast as it again chewed on his trouser leg.

Josephine knelt in the dirt and offered a tentative hand, which the goat immediately began to lick and nibble on. While Christine wrinkled her nose in disgust, Josephine laughed with delight and scratched the goat's ears.

"Does she have a name?"

"Goat," Erik replied tersely.

"That's not a name," his cousin replied, throwing him a glance of utter irritation. "She _is_ a goat. You can't _name_ her Goat."

Christine stepped up next to Erik and tugged conspiratorially at his sleeve. He smiled down at her briefly as they watched girl and goat bond, the yellow gold eyes of each staring at one another in pure adulation.

"Her name is Deidre," Josephine announced, tilting her head slightly. "She's the fattest goat I've ever seen." Innocently she looked up at Erik and Christine. "Why is she so fat?"

Erik colored, and Christine, knowing nothing about goats, stared at him blandly for a moment before she understood his discomfort. "Oh! Well, Josephine, she must eat very much," she replied. "And...why...she has this whole pasture, so it must be the only thing that she does all day long!"

"I couldn't have said it better myself," Erik murmured, his lips tipping up at each corner.

"Don't tease, or I'll have you explaining to her the finer points of animal husbandry," Christine whispered back.

Having seen goats mate, Erik did not think there was anything particularly fine about it, but he said nothing, preferring to watch as the tips of Christine's ears turned a very lovely shade of pink.

"I opened one of my trunks this morning," she said, watching as Josephine walked down the fence, teasing the goat with a bit of grass. "I found the journal. Did Greta mistakenly pack it?"

"No."

Christine met Erik's gaze, her own cautious, always trying to imagine what he was thinking. It was nearly impossible, but if she had to guess, she would say that he was very tense.

"I don't think that you're a man who changes his mind very often," Christine stated, rising on her toes to brush a kiss across his cheek. The gesture of trust that he'd shown her was touching, such a small thing it might seem, but she'd nearly cried when she'd found it after breakfast. "I'm glad that you did this time."

Erik caught her before she could pull away, one hand pressing low on her back to keep her near. "My lesson with Joshua is in half an hour. Would you like to join us?"

Christine stilled, then smiled. "If that is your wish."

# - # - # - # - # - #

She watched, entirely fascinated as Erik stood before Joshua, teaching him as he'd never been able to do with her. He made notes in a little journal, unknowing or uncaring of the ink staining his hands and the white cuffs of his shirt. The boy was very good, and it was obvious from his expression that he wanted nothing more than the approval of his teacher. Praise that was seldom given, but always sincere. Amidst furtive glances at Joshua's posture, and the placement of his hands, Erik seemed to fill a whole page before he tossed the book aside, clapping his hands together once.

"Did you bring the score back this time?"

From his back pocket, a folded, half torn sheet of music was produced. "My little sister's puppy found it," Joshua mumbled shamefaced, offering it to his teacher. "I'm sorry, Sir."

Christine stifled a laugh as Erik's mouth thinned into a flat line.

"Keep it," Erik clipped, an expression of annoyance on his face. "Why should this time be any different?"

Joshua's face fell, and Christine stood, thumping Erik lightly on the shoulder. "Don't worry yourself over it, Joshua. Erik has more, I'm sure."

"That was an original," Erik replied expressionlessly. "My _last_ original."

"Well you of all people should know not to give your original copies away." Christine patted Joshua's shoulder in sympathy. "I remember exactly how he is, Joshua. Now that I think of it, I was always the one who was at fault for losing music. Children can't be expected to keep up with such trivial things."

"_Trivial_? Music is trivial to you now?"

"If it were, would I have brought you a trunk full of original opera scores?" Christine responded with a little devilish smile.

Surprise, then pleasure flickered in Erik's eyes, then oddly, suspicion. "You wouldn't make sport of me, would you?"

Christine smiled teasingly for a moment, then shook her head. "They're in my room. I wasn't sure if you would want them or not."

Erik reached for the violin from Joshua. "Our lesson is complete. I will see you in two days."

"But I..."

"Thank you, Joshua," Erik cut in, laying the violin in it's case on the piano, "but that will be all for today."

The boy looked disappointed as he gathered his things and trudged out the door, making Christine feel terrible for mentioning something she knew Erik would be unable to resist.

"Wasn't sure if I would want them," Erik muttered beneath his breath, shooting her a look of disbelief. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find originals, or at the very least, precise copies in this part of the country? I've asked Francois each time he makes a trip somewhere, but he never remembers. If you send off for them, it takes forever, and sometimes they never find their way here."

"Which is why I brought them for you," Christine replied, pleased to see him unable to contain a genuine smile. "I wasn't sure if you would want them, because they were from me. And I wasn't sure if I should give them to you, once I discovered your engagement. I was going to leave them as a parting gift."

Erik opened his mouth, then closed it, caught off guard. "There will be no parting gifts," he finally replied, sounding very uncertain of his own words.

"Wait here," she instructed, then returned with a large sample of what she'd brought for him.

It seemed so simple a thing, really, but with Erik it could be a symbol of something. Anything. Christine heard his quick, indrawn breath, and dropped an armful of leather bound scores on the piano.

"For me?" he asked, looking shocked.

"Yes," Christine answered shyly. "There have been a few changes in the world of music in Europe since you left..."

Erik reached for a folder, stunned to find it was an opera score, as were the others. There were over two or three dozen folders here, all of them music. He met Christine's eyes for a moment, and was startled when she moved around the piano beside him, giving a sunny smile.

"Look," she began, her voice trembling slightly. "This one is by Bizet...it's a new one..._Carmen_ is the name. Everyone hates it, but I loved it." She reached for another one. "And here...Gounod has produced another two, though nothing has compared to Faust..."

Erik opened the cover to one that had nearly fallen off the stack, then snorted in disgust. "You brought me Gilbert and Sullivan?"

"You've heard of them then?"

He feigned a shudder. "If I never hear those talentless bastards again, it will be too soon. Francois dragged me to one of their operas in New York a few years ago."

Christine smiled, knowing how his style varied so greatly from the comedic composers. "You must admit they are funny."

"I would rather have my ear drums pierced than sit through even one of their operas," Erik muttered.

Christine watched in amused silence as he read each score, his finger moving across the conductor's notes, then peeking through each section for strings, brass, percussion, and vocal. Dividing them into two stacks, she knew immediately which ones were his favorites. The comedies he brushed aside, preferring the darkness and heartache of tragedy and romance. Her angel, always searching. Had he found happiness with Lesley, only to have it ripped from his grasp?

"Is this the only thing you've wanted to do?" Christine asked softly.

"Teaching?" he responded, staring down at the score to an unknown composer. "No. To be honest, I find it tiresome."

"You have a talent for it. But..."

Erik's glance was entirely resentful and sullen. "Not you too," he muttered.

"You_ could_ be a little nicer to Joshua," Christine continued, though she knew it would likely do no good. "He did very well today, and you didn't even acknowledge it."

"I didn't criticize him, did I?"

"So saying nothing is your idea of encouragement?" Erik flushed slightly, and Christine sat down, her shoulder aching and sore. "You weren't usually like that with me. Remember?"

"You were different," Erik replied, his tone soft. Ah, and she had been different. Each word of praise he'd managed to give her was torture, and it had taken him forever to utter the first one. He'd practiced, painfully aware that he'd never been given that same gesture in his own life, and never knowing what to say. He'd limited himself to, _"Very good, Christine"_, "_You did well tonight"_, and the most difficult of all, _"Your Angel could not be more proud"_.

Saying things to his students now was even harder, mostly because he did not know them as he had known her. They were strangers, observant, mimicking little strangers, and offering words of praise was embarrassing because it always sounded false to his ears, even if they had done well. It was not that they did not deserve them – it was something within himself that could not release that right combination of sweet, simple commendation.

"So what is it that you wanted to be?" Christine asked, sensing his discomfort.

"Well," Erik replied, glancing down at his new collection of scores, "when I was five, I thought I wanted to be Mayor of Lille. Now, I think I'd settle for an early retirement, perhaps take up gardening and knitting."

It took Christine a moment to realize he was teasing, and he leaned down just as a laugh burst from her mouth, catching her off guard with a quick kiss.

"What I want more than anything in all the world, Christine," he murmured, his voice husky, eyes dark with emotion, "is a wife."


	50. Solution to the Tavernier

_'Christine, I love you, and you would make me the happiest of men if you would agree to be my wife.'_

_'You cost me a fiancée. The least you can do is provide me with a new one.'_

_'Marry me.'_ Definitely not.

Erik had waded into deeper water than he ever meant to with that statement, and nothing now could pull those words from the air, hanging suspended between them like the threatening sting of an aggravated wasp. The look in Christine's eyes was one of surprise and panic.

Why could he not ask her as he had done Lesley? Did it mean something that it terrified him a hundred times more to ask Christine, even if it was simply the wrong moment or too soon?

_Did it mean she was the wrong woman?_

Erik's distress was enough to make him haul his nose away from hers and resume looking through those bloody scores, not seeing the notes, desperate to undo the last tense moments with her.

Christine cleared her throat, and stared down at the keys. "Yes, well. You would be thirty five now. Most men desire to get married at some point in their life, to create a family of their own."

Erik looked at Christine sharply, about to retort that a wife, Josephine, and Bernadette would be all the family he would have, because there would be no children. The look on Christine's face though, said she wanted to let this conversation go as much as he did. She'd made it easy, directing the question off of themselves, and moving it to a general couple – one who had never hurt each other. Erik wondered if marriage was even something Christine would want – to anyone. Was she capable of fidelity? Did she care about such things, given the number of beaus she'd undoubtedly had over the years?

"Francois says that I must be mad," Erik responded, cautiously allowing a light and teasing tone, "to ever want to shackle myself to one woman. I can think of a million reasons not to, and only one reason that I should."

Christine's mouth fell open promptly, and she turned scarlet. "I do believe I hear Bernadette calling me," she said faintly.

"_Companionship_, Christine," Erik said dryly.

"Oh." She looked mortified now, and blinked down at the piano keys. "Of course."

'_Though the other benefit is no great sacrifice either,' _he added silently.

Which left him wondering, how exactly did Christine Daae make love? Was she like Lesley, under the covers in darkness, never allowing him to linger in places that he ached to explore? Wild and uninhibited, gasping his name with inviting eyes and an open, panting mouth? Passive, and willing it to be over soon so that she might sleep?

Somehow he did not think the last one fit her, although if someone had asked several years ago, first he would have broken their neck, then silently chosen that meek, passionless Christine.

Almost as importantly, whose searching hands had guided her into losing her innocence? Raoul de Chagny? It was an image that fit perfectly, the sweet faced boy cherishing her with gentle kisses and whispered words of affection and love. Or had it been painful, awkward, and frightening, with a stranger?

"I don't think I want a lesson today after all," Christine said suddenly, rising from the piano. "I'm rather tired, and my chest is throbbing where that wench stabbed me."

"What about tomorrow?"

Christine looked resigned, and let her eyes flicker downward. "I'm not an opera singer any more. I don't think that I want to be again."

"But your voice..."

She heaved a regretful breath out, "I've tried everything that I know of: herbal remedies, breathing exercises, and complete silence for three months. I just cannot sustain a note anymore. My voice catches once I go past the high E, and I...I just crack."

"How long did you sing while you should have been resting?" Erik asked, frowning mightily.

"Six months," she replied meekly, though even before that her strength had not been complete.

Erik's nostrils flared slightly, mouth flattening in displeasure, but he said nothing.

"I'm so sorry, Angel."

His eyes closed briefly, hearing that name, remembering that once long ago it had been his only name, and one he'd borne with enormous guilt. Still, his heart seemed to grow inside just hearing it, seeing her gentle gaze flickering up to meet his own.

"You don't like that name, do you?" Christine whispered.

"It's not what I am," Erik murmured, caught in memories stretching back to the days before his blackened past had made it impossible for them both to forget. "It never was."

Christine laid a hand against his chest, felt the warmth that spread through her just from the light touch, and it was so much more than physical heat – heat that curled low in her stomach, hot and sweet and tight. "I still think of you as my Angel," Christine breathed softly. "In my..." She caught herself, flushing as he stepped closer, his eyes growing all the more curious.

"In your what, Christine?"

"Dreams."

"You dream about me?" Erik asked, tilting her face up, his lips close to hers but not touching. "What am I doing?"

"Singing. Laughing." _Crying, _she wanted to add, but didn't. Too many things could bring up the past that each of them tried so hard to forget. She did not know what they were doing with this seductive, dangerous game, but she could not stop from wanting it to continue, no matter what the cost. "Kiss me, Angel," Christine instructed, as if she needed to with him already swooping in, bringing her near with one hand on her hip, squeezing in silent invitation.

Gently, tenderly, with only the sound of breaths catching and soft, surrendering moans, they kissed. Yesterday's kiss had been surprising, and emotions long buried had ripped through them both, holding them back. This kiss, no, this was what they each wanted, hands straying, bodies touching, blood burning with the need to feel, to be caressed.

"You don't know what you're doing, Christine," Erik muttered softly, his lips brushing against her neck. "You shouldn't tempt me like this."

Christine shivered, wanting him to tell her what she tempted him to do, so she wouldn't have to ask. She had never been this intimate with a man before, never felt strong fingers skimming her side, making her ache, and barely understanding why.

Oh yes, Juliette had been blunt with her, very graphic in her descriptions of what happened between a woman and a man. But she'd never described this dull, insistent throbbing of want and need. Did Erik feel the same? Was that part of him, the one Juliette had so lovingly described, in that state of desire as it should be?

Even as her thoughts traveled into the gutter, Christine felt the very thing she was curious about, a strange bulge pressed low on her stomach. Erik brought his lips back to hers for one last searing kiss, then set her away, breathing hard.

"We have to stop, or we'll both be in trouble," he said weakly. "It's quite strange...with you. To feel like this."

"What did you think it would be?" Christine asked innocently, though with a woman's heart, she desired to know.

Erik laughed, though it wasn't quite a laugh, his gaze slowly moving down the length of her. "Certainly not that you would be so...experienced."

Christine's lips parted in shock, disappointed that he thought so little of her as to believe that she could possibly have such little respect for herself. "I've already told you that I'm not a whore."

"Not a...," he flinched at the word, "...a whore, Christine. That's not what I meant."

"It certainly sounded as if that's what you think," she fumed, wanting to tell him the truth, but deeply embarrassed to discuss such an intimate subject. "No doubt you think that I've provided my services to the Vicomte de Chagny all these years. Well let me tell you something, Monsieur Jeunet, he didn't want me. Even had I offered myself to him, _which I most certainly did not_, he didn't want me! There has been no one else. No one!"

Erik stood, gaping after her once she'd stormed out, unable to believe what he was hearing. As if on cue, she stomped back into the room, her eyes flashing in anger from his insult.

"One more thing," Christine said, her voice an angry lash that drove home his shame. "I don't care if you believe me. I know the truth, and you can wonder about it all you like. That part of my past is not your business, and there is no chance in hell that you'll ever find out!"

# - # - # - # - # - # - # - #

Christine calmed herself, sitting on the dock over the river, watching a sunset unlike any she'd ever witnessed, but too glum to enjoy the effects of the purple and red streaked light before a yellow sun, even as storm clouds rolled in from the south. They seemed to be racing for each other, the beautiful colors and the darkened clouds, a collision that would inevitably blot out the sun. Much like her past relationship with Erik, she mused. It hurt that he thought so ill of her, and even more because her innocence was not something she would have given away to someone she did not love. Not after she'd nearly lost it against her will, and not after almost selling it for the meager amount of money she'd taken from that man in his hotel.

Her body had been her own, but while she'd lain in bed this morning, she'd wondered what it would feel like to surrender to that dark heat Erik stirred in her. She'd imagined him caressing her back, whispering words of love in that fine, melodic voice, and gazing at her with worshiping, golden eyes.

But no, Erik thought she was crude, making love to any man who tossed a rose at her feet, or wrote horrid poems of idiotic devotion. Her fans over the years had more often proved amusing than inspiring, besotted fools who stumbled over their own words and feet for the chance to kiss her hand.

With a flash of shame, Christine remembered taunting Erik that she made love on silk sheets, never satin, the day he had angered her with his assumption of her many lovers. She heartily regretted giving in to her impulsive urge to retaliate, to hurt him. Well now Erik knew the truth, or at least Christine hoped that he believed her. There were certainly no lovers in her past, only a few devoted people whom she would surely continue to miss: a few kind musicians and conductors, critics who had favored her with their reviews, and composers that she longed to work with again. Some more than others, she thought scornfully, glaring out at the water.

"I hope that scowl isn't meant for me."

Christine stiffened at Erik's voice behind her, and turned slightly as he walked out onto the dock. "Yes it was," she replied, still angry. "I came out here to be alone, you know."

"I know." He held out a hand to her with a glance at the darkening sky. "It's already raining near the house. You should come back inside."

Even as he said it thunder cracked, followed by a stark white bolt of lightening. Scrambling to her feet, her heart pounding, Christine gazed desperately to the safety of the house, several yards away. "We'll never make it," she said fretfully, biting her lip.

Thunder cracked again, and she jumped a foot with a shriek.

"You're afraid of storms now too?"

"You would be too if you had slept under a bridge with lightning striking all around!" Christine snapped, brushing past him.

"Christine!" The note of pain in his voice stopped her, and she looked back, cursing herself for divulging that small piece of her past.

"Forget what I just said," she muttered, turning away.

She had reached the bank when Erik caught up with her, turning her around and hugging her tightly.

"Please tell me," Erik whispered, unbearable need written across his face.

The rain finally let loose, pouring from the sky in angry torrents, and thunder rumbled loudly overhead.

A denial rose in Christine's throat, but he framed her face with his hands, brushing away wet locks of hair and tears from frightened eyes.

"Tell me," Erik repeated, his voice an echo filled with hurt. "My God, would you please just tell me what happened to you?"

* * *

Christine shivered, even though it was not cold, and Erik grabbed her hand and pulled her down a path near the river. Just inside the line of trees was a large, crudely built structure on stilts, sitting half on the river, half on a steepening bank. The wind howled through the trees, and he led her up the wooden steps into a loft like area. In the center of the room below them a long, narrow strip of floor was missing, and she could see wave and water beneath. 

"This was originally just a boat house," Erik said as she looked around. "I added this part a few years ago."

"It reminds me of your other home," Christine murmured, though it was devoid of any art. There was a pallet on the floor near a cold, empty fireplace, and a writing desk with a large decorative rug beneath it, and against the balcony facing away from the rest of the dock was a faded sofa. Scattered pieces of music lay on the floor, and she bent eagerly to read a piece.

"That isn't finished," Erik said, taking it from her.

"You don't want me reading your work?"

"I want you to stop changing the subject, Christine. I want the truth."

Erik sat down, tugging her beside him onto the sofa, and something began to break inside of her at his look of concern. She'd told Juliette once, long ago, and had tried so very hard to put it behind her, but sometimes those months when she had wandered around Eastern Europe cold, hungry, alone – haunted her waking and sleeping moments. Erik cradled her hand gently in his, and haltingly she began to speak.

"It's nothing so terrible as what you think. I wasn't protected, but I didn't fare so badly." Christine smiled slightly. "I'm alive. That's what counts, isn't it?"

"Were you _hurt_, Christine?" he demanded, gripping her hand tightly.

"No. Not the way you imply, though I had a couple of rough brushes with the underbelly of Berlin, and of Prague."

"The man in the hotel?"

She worried her lower lip, and nodded. "I had no money. I had been fired from two theaters, and no one would hire me because I couldn't speak German very well. I was ridiculed because...because of what happened with you in Paris. They accused me of burning down the theater, of helping Bernadette extort money from the managers. I was _starving_. Please understand. I would never have gone with him, but_ I had no choice._"

"Oh, Christine." Erik pulled her against him, but she resisted, catching his eye.

"There was something in your journal you'd written about survival, about_ awakening. _You never stopped fighting."

"Christine...," he protested, unnerved by her fevered expression.

"Neither did I."

A breath of relief left him, but she wasn't quite through. No, by the time she'd relayed the harrowing tale of her journey to Prague, Erik's face was white, and he had an unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach.

But Christine was smiling. Smiling! She'd just told him that she had nearly drowned – was beaten and nearly raped, had starved for countless nights, and had slept in the elements amidst filth and vermin. She told him she'd offered her innocence for the same amount it cost to purchase a quart of milk and three eggs. How could she be smiling, given all that she'd been through? And how had she forgiven him for causing her to be sent away?

"You didn't deserve this," Erik whispered, his eyes burning and his throat swollen with anger and pain. "God, you didn't. You didn't, and I'm so sorry."

"I'm not." Unthinkingly, Christine caressed the scarred side of his face, but he didn't turn away. She stroked the fine hair of his head, marveling at the softness, intrigued at how he shuddered beneath her hand. "I learned to survive, and I became everything that you ever wanted for me. If I had stayed, I wouldn't have accomplished anything. The only thing that I regret are the people I left behind. You, Madame Giry, Meg," Christine said softly, then added, "Raoul."

Erik scowled immediately. "Must you mention him to me?"

"He was my friend," Christine replied. "He will always be very dear to me, but I never loved him the way a wife should love a husband. I don't think he ever felt that way about me either."

Erik wanted to retort, to resurrect those final moments in his lair and demand to know what she'd been thinking then, how she could betray him, and what it meant that now she was here, telling him that she did not love Raoul.

"Erik, I'm sor..."

"No," he whispered, placing the tips of his fingers at her mouth, seeing so clearly that the only way for them to ever survive, was for him to let go of it all. "I expected too much of you back then. You never have to apologize to me again. You had every right to feel however you wanted, for whomever you wanted. I'm the one who made mistakes."

"As do you," Christine whispered. "If you love Lesley, you should not be here with me."

Erik leaned in, and placed a kiss on her brow. "I'm exactly where I want to be. I need to apologize for what I said earlier."

"About my experience?" Christine asked, tipping her head back, a glint of amusement in her tone when he had the grace to look embarrassed.

"I should not have mentioned it to you, regardless of whether or not you'd ever...ah..."

"Juliette has never been shy of talking about these things. You can say it, Erik," Christine murmured.

He traced the bridge of her nose with the tip of his finger, uncomfortable with discussing sex with her, now that he knew the truth. Happiness had never seemed more imminent, and pride and desire never more profound. She'd never lain with a man. Not with de Chagny, nor with any others, and she had neither given her innocence away or had it brutally taken. His Christine, a little battered, tougher, but just the way he had left her. Still, there was one thing he _had _to know.

"You never...met anyone? Not someone you cared about?"

A smile softened Christine's features for a moment, and Erik's heart fell.

"There was a man in Prague who offered to marry me. Roman Novotný. His mother taught me piano, and she wanted a mother for his children."

"Children?" Erik repeated, a hint of distaste in his voice.

"Five," Christine confirmed with a laugh. Erik grimaced, and she laughed again. "He remarried after I left Prague and had three more."

"Why didn't you marry him?" Erik asked, his voice husky with hope.

"For many reasons. I didn't love him. I'd just found a benefactor to support me in opera, and because he was stubborn and thought he knew what was best for me."

"He sounded like a fool."

"Actually Roman reminded me of you," she returned easily. "He was very protective; a gentleman."

The scowl turned into a look of disbelief, and Christine scooted closer to Erik on the sofa, wanting another of those kisses that turned her knees to water.

"A gentleman? Miss Daae, I assure you, I am not a gentleman."

"No?" Her eyes purposely dropped to his lips.

"Christine, why have you never married?" Erik whispered, taking her by the shoulders and keeping her in place.

"My eyes were opened. Once I made the stage, I was finally in charge of my life. I could not see a reason to relinquish that hold. More than that, there was no one I cared about."

Disappointment washed over Erik's features, and he did his best to hide it, but Christine knew it was not what he'd wanted to hear.

"You've become a feminist?" Erik asked her flatly. "A liberated woman? Or simply as you said, no one you cared about?"

"If I were liberated, I would have taken scores of lovers and denounced the institution of marriage. I never said that I didn't want to marry. As for the other," she said, locking gazes with his that held...and held, "every time that a man expressed interest in me, I thought of another."

"The Vicomte de Chagny?"

"Not even once."

Erik swallowed hard, skimming over her face with the tips of his fingers. She closed her eyes, lips parting and breath catching. "Would you marry if someone asked you?"

Christine's eyes fluttered open, and she offered a most disarming smile. Before she could speak a loud rapping made them both jump, and the door behind them was flung open.

"I'm coming in!" Bernadette announced very loudly. "I've no idea if you're still in here or not, but I demand that Christine return to the house with me right now!"

They glanced over, saw that Bernadette had one hand pressed over her eyes as she felt her way into the room.

"Bernadette," Erik muttered, releasing the woman he'd been about to kiss senselessly, depending on what her answer had been, of course. "What are you doing?"

She cautiously lowered a hand. "Oh thank heaven! Christine, come with me now."

"We are _talking_," Erik said, his words precise. "Is there something urgent occurring at this very moment? A fire? A _death_?"

Bernadette extended her hand towards Christine. "The doctor is here to examine Christine's wound, and Francois and Patrice arrived an hour ago. I've been searching everywhere for you both," she said, glaring at Erik, "though I should have known you would be here."

"Tell them all to go away," Erik ordered, placing an arm in front of Christine so that she could not move.

Christine took his hand and set it back down. "No, I do need to have this dressing changed. We can finish our talk later."

"But..."

Right in front of Bernadette she kissed him, taking his chin and caressing the fine stubble along his cheek. "My answer, Erik, is that if _someone_ asks me nicely, I might just say yes."

She left him wanting nothing more than to haul her back in his arms, lay her down on the pallet before the hearth, and make her undeniably his. Her words stunned him, left him in a dizzy state of happiness and disbelief. "My Christine," he murmured, pulling the gold ring from his pocket, and blessing it with a kiss. "Are you truly mine? Can you really want me, trust me, after all that I have done?"

Erik stared at hands, the ones which had caused her so much pain, and wondered if they could bring her any pleasure. Dear Lord, but it was what he wanted, to marry her, to show her how deeply that she was cherished. No longer shy, predictable Christine, and he found her even more beautiful now than ever.

He was in the exact same position a half hour later when Francois strode through the door of his sanctuary unannounced. His friend gave him a look when he scowled.

"Well if you aren't going to come out of hiding, I had to come find you," Francois said good naturedly. "I knew that diamond had to be real! I knew it!"

"Yes, and the damned thing nearly got Christine and Madame Dvorak killed," Erik said darkly. "Josephine handed it over the moment she found out about Christine, but I've no idea what to do with it."

"No?" Francois asked wickedly. "I can definitely help you there, my friend."

"I'll bet," Erik replied dryly.

"Tiffany's! The answer is Tiffany's of New York! It's the only answer, unless you'd rather I take it back to Europe, which could prove tricky since it's obviously stolen."

"I do not intend to sell it, Francois."

His friend gaped at him. "Why ever not? You can't be serious, Erik. We're talking about an exquisite gem, one that could pay quite handsomely. I'm even willing to split the proceeds with you!"

Erik guffawed at Francois, ever the opportunist. "You're no different now than the day you stole this very ring from my pocket, are you?"

Francois managed to look suitably offended. "I'll be the one entering Tiffany's to sell the bloody thing, not you."

Erik reached into his pocket and unwrapped the heavy diamond from the linen he had bound it in. "True, but then again, this would be more Christine's headache than mine. She is the one who attracted the attention of smugglers. It was Josephine's rabbit into which it was stuffed. I'm merely holding it for safekeeping."

Francois moved forward, his thief's heart racing at the sight of it. "God, but it is a thing of beauty. How is that I, in all my years of crime, never stumbled on something like this? I tried to break into the Louvre once, you know."

"You _are_ an idiot."

"I was sixteen, and I'd just made love to a woman the first time - my mentor's daughter. She said she thought I was the best thief in the world, and she wanted a painting by Delacroix. I hid behind a statue from supper time until almost dawn, and didn't even make it into the galleria before I was caught. Her father had passed a note along to the director, whom he was friends with, as retribution for sleeping with his daughter." Francois smiled faintly. "They threw me into the Bicêtre, and I didn't see the sky for three years."

"You're lucky you ever saw it again period," Erik said, yanking his hand back before Francois could touch the diamond.

"Cruel bastard," Francois muttered beneath his breath.

Erik merely smiled, and finally stood. "You may take it to New York for an _appraisal_, and to be certain that it is the same caliber as the Tavernier. But for God's sakes, do not bandy this thing around. Obviously someone wants it back, and enough to kill for it."

Francois nodded. "You think the woman that they caught has an accomplice?"

Cautiously Erik handed the diamond to Francois. "I've no doubt of it."


	51. Great Escape

I wanted to thank everyone for their reviews. Sorry I haven't had time to respond to you individually - work has been crazy. I actually had to take the morning off to do some state tax stuff since Louisiana government workers have working hours that do not work around mine.

So here I am on hold with the state and posting a chapter. I checked and I think there are 16 more chapters for this story. Posting 3 x a week we should be done in a little over a month!

* * *

Gordon halted at the sound of a distinguished, clipped British accent coming from the police station's open windows. It was nothing so remarkable really, expect for the last few weeks he'd become used to the dull, plodding drawl of Southerners in this humid state, and the precise, dry voice was nearly a relief to hear.

"You said your name was what, Sir?" an officer with, again, that long, syrupy drawl asked.

"Inspector Julus Martin, of Scotland Yard."

Which was, of course, when Gordon stiffened in the sweltering heat outside, a chill running down his spine. Constance was still inside, and hehad intended to claim her as a crazed patient from some sanitarium, or even a mad wife who was jealous of his nonexistent affair with the opera singer - anything to get her out of there, and subsequently, out of America.

With the diamond, of course.

"The young lady you've detained, I need to speak with her immediately."

"Well, the Chief isn't here right now, Mr. Martin, and I've been instructed not to allow anyone back there. She's a wildcat, that one," the officer chuckled. "Pretty thing too. A real man-eater!"

"More like man-killer," Gordon muttered to himself, knowing his sister far preferred murder to sex.

"You can come back after lunch. He's just across the street in the diner if you'd like to find him."

"No, no," Mr. Martin replied brusquely. "I'll just return to the hotel. Say...do you happen to know where the young victim of last night's attack has gone? I tried to reach her earlier, but she'd checked out."

"She's out at the damned Frenchie's house, out by the river."

"Do you have the address?"

Gordon walked a little ways until he was able to see the young officer scrawling off an address, no doubt to the two story house out near the river.

As the Inspector came out of the police station, he gave Gordon a cursory glance and a polite nod, then continued on his way to the hotel.

Gordon followed, a plan forming in his mind, one which nearly made laughter erupt from his wicked throat.

# - # - # - # - #

"He talked you into it?" Patrice asked, showing her gratitude and excitement by embracing Erik and laughing like a mad woman. "Oh, New York! I love New York!"

"I can see that," Erik returned, patting her back affectionately. "But you will be careful? That diamond is something that someone obviously went through a lot of trouble to conceal, and they tracked Christine down with it once. I don't want anyone getting hurt over the bloody thing, or I'll simply turn it over to the authorities."

"Why haven't you already?" Bernadette asked fretfully. "I'm sure they are much more capable of dealing with this than you are."

Erik met her worried gaze. "The fools in this town will be no more help than asking a pasture full of your milking goats to boil coffee."

"So you'll watch the girls for us then?" Francois asked hopefully.

Erik looked to Patrice, whose eyes had also taken on a pleading, desperate look. If one thing could be said of the Paumards, they loved their children...and loved them even more from afar. "Bernadette?" Erik prompted.

"Of course we will," she answered, immediately warming to the idea. "You two have a wonderful time. When are you leaving?"

By the look in the couple's eyes, five minutes ago might have been their answer, but there were three little girls they needed to say farewell to. Erik also knew that the first thing they would do upon arriving in New York would be to send a telegram, asking after their darling, loud children.

"In the morning, most likely," Francois replied, placing an arm around his wife, and smiling down into her loving eyes.

Erik resisted rolling his own. In nine months, he had no doubt that the lucky bastard would produce yet another child, and he would still be helping his friend add on to his coastal home long after Elise had had her first kiss.

"If you won't mind, we'll drop the girls and their clothes off in the morning on our way to the station," Patrice told Bernadette. "I'm afraid it will be awfully early though as the train for New York leaves at seven."

"Don't you worry, I'll be up, although I'm sure Erik will still be in bed night owl that he is. I'll get the extra room ready for the girls, and I'll put the baby in with me." Bernadette beamed a decidedly maternal looking smile at the thought of caring for the three Paumard girls.

"Well, I daresay I'll be joining you on the journey, if you don't mind," Juliette Dvorak spoke from behind them. "It was nice to meet all of you, but dying in this heat just isn't the way I want to go."

Erik turned to see Christine and Josephine assisting the older woman into the room. Juliette was pale, sweating, and beneath her eyes were dark telling rings of exhaustion. "You want to go to New York?" Erik asked her, surprised.

"I have some friends there," she said, breathing heavily.

Erik slid an armchair sideways and helped her sit, his hands accidentally brushing against Christine, who jumped beneath his touch. She was blushing, and wouldn't meet his gaze. "Will you be joining her?" Erik asked, his voice soft with hope.

"No," Christine whispered, glancing up at him quickly, then away. "I'll be staying here."

"With me," Josephine said proudly, to no one in particular.

Christine hugged the girl with one arm around the shoulders. "That's right. With Josephine." But her eyes met Erik's, and conveyed another meaning. "And I hear that she wants to stay because she is quite taken with Deidre the goat."

Now it was Josephine's turn to blush, because as Francois and Erik had come to the house, she had been trying her very best to entice the goat through the kitchen door with a slice of chocolate cake. "She wouldn't make a mess. I promise!"

"If you want a house pet, we'll get you something a little less...goat-like," Erik offered. "Perhaps a kitten?"

"I don't like cats," Josephine muttered. "I want Deidre."

"No goats," Erik replied in a very "I know best" tone. "One dog or one cat. That is my compromise."

The girl looked miffed, but didn't argue, and Erik met Christine's eyes, surprised to find...approval? She approved of him playing the beast and not allowing Josephine something she obviously wanted? Had it not been a goat, or any other barnyard animal, he might have said yes. As long as it had no hooves, scales, or any rat – like features, of course.

Francois was showing the diamond to Juliette Dvorak, whose eyes had lit up in delight at the exquisite gem, and she was comparing the size of her own wedding ring to the enormous rock, laughing because her husband had purchased what he thought would be the largest diamond on earth.

"There is no comparison," she marveled, then handed it back to Francois. "It's quite a gem. Africa, you think?"

"India, most likely," Francois said, explaining his theory of it being a sister to the French Blue. "The adventurer Jean - Baptiste Tavernier discovered a large diamond, in this precise shape and color in a statue of the goddess Sita, and he took it from her eye. It can be well assumed that this goddess had two eyes, of course, but the second eye has never been found. There have been wild rumors for many years, that some shah or sheik or another of those countless Princes of Arabia had possession of it, and even a few diamonds exist that people think came from the same diamond mine as the Tavernier, but nothing in my opinion has rivaled this diamond."

"Then how do you suppose that woman had it? And how did she know where to find me?"

"You were in Antwerp, correct?" Francois asked Christine. "Very heavy into the diamond trade, and diamond smuggling. Most likely the woman who attacked you meant to intercept it at some point and sell it."

Uneasily Christine realized just how long she had been a target of that woman's plan, an unknowing accomplice to a crime, and had aided her from being detected by authorities. Was it just the theft of the diamond, or had another crime been committed? Murder, perhaps?

"Well at least she's behind bars," Bernadette said, though her expression was still one of concern. "And you'll not be bringing that back here, will you Francois?"

"Erik says he isn't selling it, so I imagine that I will," Francois replied slowly. "I could always donate it to a museum."

"It's not my diamond," Erik reminded him. "It isn't my decision to make."

All eyes swung to Christine, who looked rather startled. "Well it isn't mine either! I don't want it!"

"Well if no one else wants it...," Francois began, only to have Patrice cut him off with an indiscreet cough.

"Then I suppose it is up to Josephine," Erik murmured, glancing down into his cousin's startled eyes.

"M-me?" she gasped, her eyes going to the gem in question. "Why me?"

"You've had it all this time. What do you think we should do with it?" he asked, quite seriously.

"I...I don't know..."

"Should we sell it? Use the funds to buy you a pasture full of goats?"

He'd been teasing her, about the goats anyway, but the way her face changed indicated she thought that was a most excellent idea.

"Ah...or perhaps," Christine added quickly, placing her hands on Josephine's shoulders, "we should let Francois go to New York to determine its value, and find the original owner. I'm sure this is stolen, and no matter how you obtained it, this does not belong to you, or to Erik, or to me. Gems like this don't just disappear. Someone, other than the thief of course, must be looking for this."

Josephine looked crestfallen, and Christine smoothed her hair back.

"It's stolen. You cannot keep it," she added gently.

"But I can still have the goats, can't I?"

"That would be up to your cousin," Christine replied, shooting Erik an amused glance. "I think that in a few weeks, your goat population is going to double in any case."

# - # - # - # - # - #

Inspector Martin walked down the hall to his hotel room, and inserted a key into the door that was directly acrossfrom that of the former diva's room. The night before he'd slept through the commotion, and had been appalled to wake and find that the woman that he had tried to diligently watch had been attacked. The capture of the other woman, who he thought might be one Constance Ehlers, was an unexpected and welcome development. But an even greater worry was the location of her brother, Gordon, who was the vicious muscle behind the mastermind. He'd caught a brief glimpse of the Ehlers woman as a policeman had led her kicking and screaming out of the room, and he had remembered that beautiful face from wanted posters inside the Yard.

Maybe he was getting too old to be chasing criminals across the world, but this was one fight he could not give up. The Professor, his wife's uncle, had raised her. She'd loved that old man, and had been devastated to lose him in such a brutal manner. More than that, he had been a dear friend to Julus. The Ehlers were monsters, greedy, remorseless, and would stop at nothing to obtain whatever they were after.

Julus turned the knob to his room, then his head as he heard a sound behind him. A darkly dressed man rushed toward him from the now open door to the diva's room, and he had not even time to cry out before hands were clamped around his throat, choking him.

"You're a bit far from Scotland Yard, old chap," the man whispered, nudging the door shut, and keeping a death grip around his throat. "You should have stayed in England. Looking for me?"

"Bastard," Julus choked, trying to pry the man's hand off of his throat.

But he was not as strong as he used to be, and the man merely smiled. Gordon Ehlers - Julus was looking into the empty, cold eyes of a murderer, not for the first time in his career. Julus reached into his pocket, going for his pistol, but Gordon anticipated his move. In a move learned straight from the rookery, Gordon head butted the older man, knocking him out cold.

Removing the pistol and tucking it into his own pocket, Gordon was pleased to see that they were roughly the same size. After a thorough search of his room, and tying the old gent up – senseless to murder him when he might prove useful later – Gordon left the hotel room looking remarkably like an inspector from the Yard.

* * *

Josephine badgered Erik all through dinner about his comment to buy her a "pasture full of goats", until Christine finally took pity on him and interceded. "That's enough for now, Josephine. Come, help me clear the table, and then I'll read to you from the Frankenstein book." 

"And I believe there is a fresh batch of sugar cookies in the kitchen, dear." Bernadette added to further entice the girl.

Once Christine and Josephine had left the dining room, Bernadette looked sharply at Erik. "You've learned a lesson in child – rearing, Erik, and that is that children are literalists; never promise something in jest."

Erik shook his head ruefully and swallowed the last of his wine. "How in the world do Francois and Patrice manage with three of them?" He couldn't manage one child; three would surely be the death of him.

"Oh, I imagine it's something like music and ballet – lots of practice!" Bernadette smiled smugly. She enjoyed seeing someone get the best of Erik – even if it was only a fourteen year old girl.

# - # - # - # - #

Erik listened to Christine reading to Josephine, smiling in bemusement each time the girl interrupted her to ask a question or express her opinion on something she would have done differently if she had written it. His little cousin had quite the imagination, and if the letter from Miss Somerset was any indication, then it would be put to good use at the beginning of September when she arrived.

She'd come highly recommended from one of the teachers he corresponded with at Xavier Academy for Young Girls, and incidentally had decided to take a sabbatical from the classroom for private tutorship.

"So if Dr. Frankenstein decided to make the dead come alive, why did he have to hack up bodies and sew them together? Wouldn't it have made more sense if he had used just one?" Josephine asked, cutting Christine off just as she was getting to the part about the reanimation.

Christine glanced over at Erik, seeing that he wasn't even pretending to be interested in his own book now. "It's just a story, Josephine," she said lightly. "The dead can't really come alive."

"Yes, but if they could? Why did he use different body parts?"

She was saved from answering the gruesome question when Viola appeared at the window to the library, tapping quietly. With one finger, Erik beckoned her inside, and she flew through the door, pressing her back against it as she drew in a nervous breath.

"What's wrong?" Erik demanded, getting to his feet.

"They after me," she whispered. "I saw the lights and the hoods. It's gonna be a bad one tonight out there."

"Where is your mother?"

"Mama's in the woods waitin' on me. She say you have to help us. We have to get away from Savannah, Erik, once and for all."

He peered down at her, and saw fear in her eyes. She'd never wanted to leave before. Never been like this. Any other time Viola or her family had been confronted with this hatred, there had been more anger than anything else, coupled with their stubborn refusal to leave their home. But this time was different.

"There's something you haven't told me," he said quietly, leading her out into the hall. "What's really going on?"

"I...I'm so ashamed," Viola cried softly, looking down at the floor. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this, Erik. I had a husband I _loved_. A son. We supposed to be a family, and they killed them!"

He rubbed her arm briefly, knowing she loathed physical contact with men. "Tell me what happened to you."

"You know," she replied bitterly. "You know, so don't ask."

"Why have you decided to leave now then?"

She raised haunted eyes to his. "I'm with child. And I don't know who. I don't even know how many were...oh, sweet Lord. I can't talk about this. Will you help me, Erik? Please, I won't ask you for another thing in this life. I don't want this baby, but God saw fit to give me another, and I won't have them killing anything else that's mine."

Erik nodded, then led her into the library and showed her a map of America. "Anywhere you want, Viola. Just point, andI'll get you there," he said quietly. "But you have to promise me one thing."

"I already know what you're gonna say," Viola said, giving him a tight smile. "How do you know he's gonna have a music bone?"

"A boy?"

"My Mama knows these things."

"Then tell your Mama that I know things too, and that boy of yours is going to make a fine music student. Now, where would you like to go?"

Viola stared at the map, not really sure what she was looking at. "Where is that singing college?"

"There," he said, pointing to Boston.

She smiled wistfully. "Boston sounds good. I think we'll like it there."


	52. The Wolf in Sheepskin

"Erik," Bernadette paused a moment waiting for a response. "ERIK," she repeated louder when none was forthcoming.

"Mmmmm...?" Erik mumbled into his pillow. "Christine, my sweet."

"Erik, please wake up, the Paumards are here."

"Tell them goodbye for me then..."

"Erik, the girls are sound asleep in the carriage."

"Well, they should be asleep – it's the middle of the damn night!"

Losing her patience, Bernadette shook his shoulder roughly. "Erik you must come down and help Francois carry the girls in and put them into their beds. Now!" Bernadette slammed his door on her way out, ensuring that Erik was wide awake.

Erik swore loudly enough that he hoped Bernadette heard it on her way back downstairs. It would serve her right for waking him up when he had only just gotten into bed. He had spent most of the night getting Viola and her family safely away from Savannah. Not wanting to risk the train station in Savannah, he had driven them two towns farther up the line, and then had kept them hidden in his carriage until time for the train to pull out.

In his years of living in Savannah, and trying to do what he could to help the freed slaves, he had been given contact names and addresses for people who would help from the Carolinas all the way through the northern states and into Canada. Erik had given Viola just such a name of someone in Boston who could be counted on to help them. Erik would send a telegram on their behalf today as well.

On his way down a few minutes later, Erik met Francois on the stairs with Elise in his arms. He directed them to the smaller guest room, which Bernadette had prepared the night before, and went on out to the carriage to retrieve Adele, the middle Paumard girl.

With both girls sleeping soundly in the smaller of the two guest rooms, Erik returned to the front porch where farewells were under way. He felt his eyes drift close as Patrice went into detail for Bernadette about the girls' diets, bedtimes, and assorted other minutia of child rearing.

"Erik!" Francois suddenly shouted.

With a start, Erik jerked awake. He had literally fallen asleep where he was standing. "Why are you shouting? There's nothing wrong with my hearing."

"Maybe not, but that was the third time I've called you. It is time for us to be going, and you haven't given me the object of our trip yet."

"The object? Oh yes, the diamond." Erik blinked the sleep from his eyes, and retrieved the stone from his pocket, still wrapped in the concealing linen. "Be careful, both of you. They didn't hesitate to injure Christine to get this, so we have to assume these people, whoever they are, are dangerous. They managed to follow it here, so keep a lookout over your shoulder for anyone who looks suspicious."

Francois handed the diamond to Patrice to stow in their bags for safe keeping. "Erik, this kind of thing was my specialty. I won't be followed."

"I'm just saying you can't be too careful. Besides, you've grown soft living the life of a country squire. You're out of practice," Erik shot back.

"He better never get back _in_ practice or I'll kill him." Patrice exclaimed. "But enough of this you two; we're going to miss the train."

After a final round of goodbyes, and more kisses for their baby sleeping contentedly in Bernadette's arms, the Paumards were off, excited for a week alone together in New York city.

# - # - # - # - #

The ache in Lesley Ann's heart was mostly wounded pride. Oh yes, she had cared very deeply for Erik. She had loved him, as much as you could love a man who was in love with another woman. It was not the first time she'd felt this sting, not at all. With resignation she recalled the young handsome soldier from Boston: Private Benjamin O'Brian. He's been a rapscallion, that one. Wounded in the war, he'd barged into her home and forced her to care for him at gunpoint. Fever had incapacitated him after a few days, and she'd done the task without question, caring for him as she would any person who needed help. When he woke up, glazed with fever, he called her his beautiful woman.

To a young girl with a tender heart, the words had meant so much.

So had she loved Benjamin more than she loved Erik?

Undoubtedly yes, because he was her first love, and only death had separated them. She could still remember the day her father had come home, his voice thunderous as he caught her sleeping next to Benjamin, content and in love.

The days that followed had been so very dark, so painful. Benjamin, stillrecovering from his wounds, had been beaten and trotted off into the woods by her father's friends. She could still recall that echoing shot and the look on her father's face as she screamed hateful words at him. He hadn't pulled the trigger, but he might as well have.

And if he hadn't collapsed into a pitiful heap at her feet, she might have left him then and gone with her beloved, right into the afterlife. If he hadn't begged her forgiveness, and looked so deathly ill...

With a shake of her head, Lesley Ann pushed down the resentment as she gazed at her father across the breakfast table. He was old, but looking at him now, she knew that his convenient illnesses were nothing but a ruse to keep her near. It was while taking care of her father during his most recent attack that Lesley Ann had discovered a packet of letters from her mother. The oldest ones had been addressed to her father, but the more recent ones had been addressed to her. Her father had always forbidden any mention of her mother, but her mother had evidently tried to keep in touch with her. She wondered about her mother now, if she was happy, and if she still thought about the daughter that had been left behind in Georgia.

"Been thinkin' about your situation, Sissy," her father commented,interrupting Lesley's thoughts.

The food in her mouth seemed to grow, and she glanced down at her plate, concealing uneasy thoughts. Things had been unbearably tense between them the last few days, and she knew he had one of his secret meetings coming up in a few days. "My...situation?"

"With that blasted Frenchie," he grunted. "I think with a little persuasion, we can get him to go back where he came from."

Lesley Ann set her fork down, swallowing painfully. "Listen to me, Father. I don't want you to hurt Erik, or anyone else."

"He don't belong here."

"That isn't for you to decide," she returned evenly. "Just let him alone. It's for the best that he found her now instead of after we took vows."

"I want him to pay for what he's done," the Judge snapped. "He defiled you and left you for that whore!"

Unwilling to argue, Lesley Ann pushed away from the table and laid her napkin down. "I'm going home," she announced calmly. "I hope that for my sake you will forget this foolish vendetta. Erik isn't some wounded soldier you can push around. You have no idea what he might be capable of."

The judge's face flushed with rage, and his chair crashed onto the floor as he got to his feet. "Don't you walk away from me when I'm talking to you! And don't you dare tell me what I can and cannot do!"

Lesley Ann skirted out of the room through one of the dining room doors, and with surprising speed he barreled through the other and caught her in the foyer. "Father!"

"You listen to me when I'm talking to you, girl! You aren't too old for me to take over my knee!"

"I'm a grown woman, and I can take care of myself!" Lesley protested, trying to wrest her arm free. "I won't have you interfering in my life again! And you stay away from Erik, or I swear..."

"You swear what?" he asked, his eyes narrowing to slits. "You'll do nothing! Do you hear? Nothing!"

"Father, stop!" she gasped, her arm shooting with pain. "Let me go! You're hurting me!"

"I knew I couldn't trust you! I should have kept my plans to myself! Well, are you going to say anything to that man? Or his whores? I'll string him up, his opera singer, and that damned slave he's cavorting with!"

Lesley Ann stared at him with horror, suddenly seeing who and what he truly was. All her life her father had protected her, kept her safe, coddled her, but it had all changed when she'd lain with Benjamin. He had treated her with the same disdain as he did everyone else, and kept her locked away in her room for nearly a year. She'd eventually moved in with an elderly aunt, and when her aunt had died, the house and it's contents – and a little money – had been left solely to her. Without that little bit of freedom Lesley Ann's spirit might have totally been crushed. Somehow she'd believed that she had forgiven him for what he'd done, but looking into his hate filled eyes, she realized that he'd do it all again if he felt the situation warranted – like now.

"Stay away from Erik," she said, her voice low and chin jutting out stubbornly. "And you can stay away from me as well."

The judge choked in rage as she pushed him out of her way and stalked out the door. Her blood boiling, Lesley Ann raced across the yard and mounted her horse, nudging him with her heels and letting him have his head.

# - # - # - # - # - #

Bernadette was holding the Paumard's youngest daughter, enthralled by the little girl blowing bubbles in her arms and gazing at her as if she held all the answers in the world, when she looked up to see Lesley Ann racing into the yard on her gelding. The wind streamed through her hair and dust flew out behind her, and all Bernadette could think was how glad she was that she had sent Christine and Erik, tired and grumpy as he was, on a picnic with the two older Paumard girls.Bernadette had been surprised and pleased when Josephine announced she would rather stay with her and the baby. Laying the child against her shoulder, Bernadette rose from the porch swing just as the woman leapt from the horse and strode up to the door.

"Ms. Giry, is Erik in?" Lesley asked breathlessly.

"No, my dear. He isn't," Bernadette replied softly. "Is something wrong?"

She pressed a hand over her chest as she tried to speak. "I...I just need to speak to him. Wh-when do you expect him?"

Bernadette shifted the child on her shoulder, and automatically Lesley's gaze dropped to the bundle in her arms, her expression turning wistful. That look, and the recent heartache that Bernadette knew the woman had recently suffered was enough to make Bernadette's nervousness leave. "Come in, Miss Brunn. I think it's time you and I had a little talk about Erik."

Lesley followed her into the house, reluctantly curious. Erik's relationship with this woman had always been something of a mystery to her, and now that she'd seen them together, she understood how deep their love for one another ran. Their affectionate, often cantankerous relationship was no doubt the strong bond which had held these two lost people to one another. Perhaps if shehad pressed Erik a little harder to meetMrs. Giry, they might have stayed strong enough to survive Christine Daae.

"You know my Erik can be such a hard headed man, yes?"

"Yes," Lesley Ann agreed.

"I know he made promises to you, my dear," Bernadette said quietly. "I'm not saying that what he felt for you was diminished. Not at all. For him to make a connection with anyone, especially a woman, he had to give a part of himself that I didn't think that he could. Not even for Christine did he let down his guard so much as he did with you. He's always been so stubborn. Always."

"From the time Erik was a boy, he's had a temper, and he's never been good with dealing with other people," Bernadette continued, jostling the baby gently. "Christine came into the theater, and she was just as lost as he was..."

"Mrs. Giry, I understand that he loves her," Lesley Ann interrupted.

"I just wanted you to know that it was more than a...romantic love. Erik told me that you were in love once yourself?"

Lesley Ann nodded, surprised that he'd spoken about her first lover. "His name was Benjamin," she murmured. "He was eighteen."

"Christine was more than that to him. She was his first friend. Helping her...built confidence in him. She accepted him unquestioningly. I was his rescuer, but Christine? She was the true savior of his soul. She gave him a purpose."

"And she broke his heart," Lesley Ann stated flatly.

"They broke each others'," Bernadette corrected sadly. "Christine was a fragile girl when she left Paris. She gave up a secure future with an aristocrat, and somehow she found her feet without help from the people who'd protected her all her life. I truly didn't think she would survive. My Meg was strong, and she...she didn't..."

Lesley Ann cleared her throat, uncomfortable as the older woman's eyes filled with tears. She grappled for something to say, but before she could open her mouth the tears had dried behind faded eyes, and Bernadette glanced down at the baby and smiled.

"I just want Erik to be happy," Bernadette finally whispered. "I'm sorry that he hurt you. I really am."

"But you think Christine will make him happier than I could?" Lesley asked, already knowing the answer.

Mrs. Giry looked at her, but said nothing, her eyes full of sympathy.

Lesley Ann gave a slight shake of her head, realizing she had forgotten the reason that she came. "I didn't come here to make amends with him in any case. Here, will you give this to Erik?" She said thrusting an envelope into Bernadette's hand. "I'm going away and this letter will explain everything to him. Before I leave though, I had to warn him that he could be in danger. My father..."

Bernadette tensed, giving Lesley Ann a direct stare. "Danger? _My_ Erik?"

"When is he coming back?"

"That is a most excellent question."

They both turned with a start at the distinct British voice behind them, Bernadette getting to her feet when she saw a man with his hand splayed across Josephine's head.

"Who might you be, Sir?" Bernadette asked archly, extending a hand to Josephine, not budging until the man relented and released the fearful eyed girl. "People generally knock and are invited before entering one's home."

"Inspector Julus Martin, Scotland Yard," the man replied, ignoring her barb. "I'm looking for Miss Christensen. This delightful child," he gestured elegantly to Josephine, "has informed me she is currently enjoying an outing with her gentleman friend."

Lesley Ann stood abruptly, and the handsome green eyed man directed a charming smile to her.

"Sorry old dove. Stole him right out from under you, did she?"

Bernadette absorbed the accusing stare with a wince. "I'm sorry Miss Brunn. Erik and Christine took Elise and Adele out for the afternoon as a favor to me."

"Not to sound as if your feelings are unimportant," the man said to Lesley Ann, "but I believe Mrs. Giry was about to answer a question. When will the gentleman of the house, and Miss Christensen, of course, be home? I have an urgent matter to discuss with them."

"He wants to know about the diamond," Josephine whispered, ducking behind Bernadette. "Is he going to arrest Christine?"

"No," Bernadette said automatically. "She's done nothing wrong. That diamond was planted on her!"

"I'm sure it was," he murmured, quirking a brow. "Nevertheless, I'll need to speak to Miss Christensen, and I'll also be needing to have that gem. Evidence, and all that."

"Well I can help you there, Inspector," Bernadette replied, bristling at his tone. "Monsieur Jeunet sent the gem to be appraised, and to see if the rightful owner can be found."

Bernadette was startled by the violent flash the man's green eyes, but it disappeared quickly as he lowered his head a moment, his jaw clenched tightly. "Mrs. Giry, that gem has been connected to a murder in Antwerp."

"Yes, and it was very nearly connected to a murder here! Good riddance, I say!" Bernadette declared. "I hope Monsieur Paumard comes to no trouble while he's in New York. If you ask me, the thing is cursed!"

"New York?" The man took a step forward, his eyes fixating on hers in a predatory manner. "The city? Or just the state?"

"Well -"

"And Monsieur Paumard? Who might this fellow be?"

Bernadette eyed the man narrowly. "Do you have some sort of identification?"

He gave her a nod, and reached into his breast pocket. "Of course I do. See? A letter from the Magistrate, and my permission to leave England in search of a murderer."

Bernadette gave the documents a thorough inspection, then ultimately relented. Hopefully he would be on his way and he would not have to involve Erik or Christine in this anymore than they already had been. "I shall tell you what I know, Sir, as long as you know that my Christine, nor my Erik had anything to do with a murder!"

Gordon relaxed, gave the shaken lovely blond ex fiancée a seductive smile because she looked ready to burst into tears, and settled down across from Mrs. Giry. He could only hope that Constance stayed in the carriage where she was still seething from her recent incarceration, and that no one discovered the real Inspector Martin, bound and gagged in his hotel room, before they could get out of this sweltering hell hole.

* * *

The plot thickens... 


	53. To Love the Angel

Francois held his breath as the jeweler gazed at the diamond, holding it to the light and inspecting it with a critical eye, then peering at it again through the loupe. It seemed even more beautiful surrounded by other gems, and Francois tried not to smile, thinking about how close he was to thousands of things that once upon a time he would have stolen without a qualm. Only the evil eye of his wife, which he could picture back at the hotel, kept him on the straight and narrow. That, and he honestly loved his family and would do nothing to destroy the home he'd finally found with Patrice and the girls.

"So?" Francois asked casually. "Is this diamond like the French Blue?"

"Like it?" the jeweler, Mr. Young repeated, his trained eye still on the gem. "No. I've inspected the French Blue myself, and I would say this one is better. It's color is remarkable, and it's still intact, whereas the French Blue has been chiseled down so many times that it's not even half of the original size. How did you say you came across this?"

"A friend of mine chanced upon it."

"Chanced?" Mr. Young chuckled. "Well, your _friend_ is mighty lucky, indeed. What does your _friend_ want to do with it?"

Francois smiled easily. "She wants to find the rightful owner. Someone recently made a rather violent attempt to retrieve the diamond, and she just wants to be rid of it. Do you know how we might track that someone down? Anyone missing something like this?"

"Not that I've heard, but I have contacts in Paris and London who would be better apprised of something of that nature."

"Do you have a safe here?"

"Of course. You want us to keep it here?"

"Better here than at the hotel," Francois said wryly. "I'll be back tomorrow after I go by the police station. Surely they will have reports of anything connected to a stolen gem, even if it is from overseas."

The jeweler smiled, nodding. "They always do, Sir."

Francois insisted on watching the man place the diamond into the safe, then took a receipt. After thanking him, he returned to the Madison Hotel where his beloved wife waited in bed without any clothes, only an enormous smile.

# - # - # - # - # - # - #

"Paumard...let's see. They are in room six twelve," the clerk said helpfully. "Do you want me to send a runner up to their room, Miss...?"

"Smith," Constance supplied, trailing her fingertips over the man's arm. "No, I'll just catch them at another time. You have been most helpful, my good man."

Gordon intercepted her across the street, smiling at her irritated expression. "Any luck?"

"The best," Constance said, scratching her head.

"What is it? Still have those pesky critters in your hair?" he laughed as she gave him a threatening look. "You are the one who insisted on confronting that woman. If you had listened to me, we would have grabbed the girl and wrested the information from her. Children are easier to dispose of. Besides, you should be thanking me. I could have left you in that jail cell, you know."

Constance fumed silently as she entered a cafe, choosing a seat with a direct view of the Madison Hotel. Her brother had learned through Mrs. Giry that the Paumards were taking the diamond to Tiffany and Co., for appraisal, and the old woman had also been kind enough to supply the information that they only stayed at the Madison when visiting New York.

Now all they had to do was wait for the perfect opportunity to grab Patrice Paumard, trade her for the diamond, and then they'd be on their way out of America.

# - # - # - # - # - #

If being apart from Christine had been difficult in all the years since he'd last seen her in Paris, and being close to her while she stayed at the hotel in Savannah had proven frustrating, then living with her was downright impossible. Every time Erik looked up, she was there. Each time their eyes met, he wanted to kiss her, and the way she blushed he now saw as the same innocent, beautiful shyness that he'd loved about her from the beginning. Bernadette seemed to be doing a rather fine job of making a nuisance of herself, but she could not watch them constantly, not when exhaustion claimed her and the rest of the house descended into silence.

Erik had taken to checking on Elise and Adele each of the four nights they'd been there, straightening the light sheet over them, and extinguishing the lamp high on a bureau that they insisted be left burning until they had fallen asleep. He stood watching the girls sleep, a strange emotion radiating out from his heart. Is this what it would feel like to be a father, he wondered. What would a daughter of Christine's look like? Would she have her wild, dark curls, or his own lighter brown hair? He had thought never to have children, but he supposed the proximity to Christine while caring for the Paumard girls had brought on these fatherly feelings.

Erik stepped out of the room into the darkened hallway, and not a moment later Christine joined him, barefoot and dressed in a lacy white nightgown, a thin silk robe cinched around her waist. He held out his hand, and without a word she took it, slipping down the hall to the music room. It was with a sense of deja vu that Erik squeezed her fingers reassuringly, except this time there was no mask, no hidden agenda, no dark voice begging that she come. Christine wanted to be here with Erik possibly as much as he wanted it, and she could feel in her veins a sizzling sense of rebellion to cast aside every bit of modesty she'd ever known and let him lead her wherever he wished to go. The door had no more shut behind them than his hands were in her loose, wild curls, and she was kissing him fervently, awed by his strength and heat, aroused by his desperate groan.

"Christine, marry me," Erik whispered against her lips, drawing his head back to meet her eyes, his own stare vulnerable and anxious.

"Yes._ Yes_." She kissed him again, winding her arms around his neck.

A harsh breath of relief left Erik's body, and he embraced her hard, his lips set against her shoulder as he struggled not to weep in pure joy. Words of love rushed up his constricted throat, but he couldn't speak. His heart pounded so hard he thought it might explode, and he only released Christine when she winced, realizing her shoulder was still very sore.

"You have made me the happiest...and luckiest of men," he said, his voice barely audible, wrought with emotion. Tears glittered in Christine's dark eyes, and more than seeing what she was feeling, Erik felt it. "I promise you that I will never let you down. I will always be your Angel..." He choked, trying to tell her how he felt, but the words would not come. Instead he kissed her again, and became lost in the sweetness of her lips.

"I don't want to wait. I want to do it now," she gasped out as he grazed her neck with his teeth, sending fire swirling through her body.

He pulled away slightly, surprise and desire mixed emotions in his expression. "You...I...beg your pardon? You want to do what now?"

"I want to get_ married_ now. No more waiting. No more games." Christine caressed his cheek, knowing she had always loved him, and would love him forever. "We won't tell anyone but Bernadette and our friends. I know you've just ended your engagement to Lesley. We wouldn't want a large wedding anyway. It would hurt her more, and I don't want that."

Erik licked his dry lips, unable to believe the brass ring could be so close. He'd always wanted this, and with this woman. A lifetime of deprivation had made him cynical, but here Christine was, exactly as he had always dreamed. "When?"

"Tomorrow," she whispered, letting him pull her closer. "Let's find a justice of the peace who will marry us tomorrow."

"What about Juliette? And Josephine?"

"It was Juliette's idea," Christine murmured, "and Josephine can come as well. Bernadette too, because I know she would not want to miss it."

"Tomorrow?" Erik repeated, blood rushing back into his brain, helping him think clearly. "You want to get married tomorrow?"

Her fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, and she nodded, barely able to breathe. "I don't want to miss another moment with you. I never want to be apart from you again."

Erik held her, memorized the sweet fragrance of her skin, the strong line of her back beneath the soft clothing. Christine explored him as well, shyly running her hands up his chest then out and down his arms. "You should return to your room," he whispered, lowering his head for another kiss. "Bernadette is not a light sleeper, but I would not chance her wrath for anything."

"We've been alone before, and I'm not a girl anymore."

"You don't need to remind me of that," Erik said, his tone dry. "I'm well aware of..."

He stopped, closing his eyes as she stepped back and parted her robe. "I want to wait until we are married, but I don't know if I can," she murmured, allowing the robe to fall from her shoulders into a soft pile on the floor.

"We will wait," he replied roughly, his eyes flying open as she stepped back into his embrace. "Oh, Christine, you should not have done that."

She was too afraid to do more on her own, and wished she had the courage to slip the gown from her shoulders as well, if only to discover how much his gaze could burn her. "Perhaps we should return to your room instead," she said nervously, unable to meet his eyes as she offered herself to him.

Erik cursed himself for having ever bitten the apple of temptation, for knowing what a woman's inviting kiss could lead to. If only he could remember that untouched man, instead of the one who knew with such accuracy what pleasure sex could bring. This was not what he wanted with her, not what his dream had been with Christine, but he was having a hard time choosing between desire and that long ago notion of what was right.

"You tempt me, mademoiselle, but tomorrow will come. Not soon enough," he added with a hoarse laugh as he gathered her in his arms, "but it will."

"I don't want to return to my room," she whispered, staring up at him. "I'm not sleepy."

He knew without a doubt that he would not sleep, and the thought of spending the night alone seemed absurd when he could be with her. "There's a chaise in the adjoining room. It was once a ballroom, but Bernadette has turned it into a sun room of sorts."

Eagerly Christine nodded, and he led her to a room overcrowded with furniture and plants. Erik lit a candle near the window, and pulled her to sit beside him, ready to kiss her again but knowing if he did that he wouldn't stop.

"Close your eyes, Christine."

She looked at him curiously a moment then obeyed, and Erik fiddled with the chain around his neck, his heart hammering as he slipped the ring off, holding the thing which had always meant so much to him, prepared to return it to the woman who'd crushed his heart when she gave it back to him.

"I lost this once," he said, barely speaking as he placed it on her finger. "Francois stole this from me, and I swear if he hadn't returned it, I might have killed him."

Christine's eyes popped open in surprise, then her mouth fell open as well. "Erik..."

"It's not a diamond. Nothing as fancy as what other men have offered, I'm sure," he added, twisting it over her knuckle because her hands were now bigger than they had been at seventeen. "If it's a diamond you want, then..."

His next words were cut off as she launched herself into his arms, laughing and crying at once. "I don't need diamonds. I'm so glad that you kept it. After everything..."

"A woman as beautiful as you are deserves them."

"I don't want a diamond. I want you."

She was kneeling on the cushion of the chaise, sprawled against his chest as he leaned back, taking her with him. His hands traveled cautiously downward, finding a slim, bare ankle and a shapely calf. Christine watched his expression as he explored her, fingers skimming higher against her thigh, then trailing back down.

"Tell me about Lesley," she whispered suddenly.

Erik regarded her with surprise, then accommodated her as she settled her head against his chest with arms draped around his stomach. "What do you wish to know?" he asked warily.

"How did you meet? What is she like?" Christine paused for a few moments, then added, "Are you going to resent me for disrupting your life?"

"Never." He kissed the top of her head, then threw his legs up beside hers. "I met Lesley through her father. I'd been living here for a few years, and he always tried to engage me in conversation every time I was in town, especially after I started teaching. At first I ignored him, but he was persistent, and somehow I found myself having dinner with the Judge and his daughter."

"You pursued her?"

Erik chuckled, glancing down at her when she raised her head. "I wouldn't have had the courage, even if the thought had entered my mind. It didn't," he added, his lips curved into a smile. "I just happened to charm her of my own accord, I suppose."

"You weren't afraid?" Christine asked, knowing the heart of her angel, and recalling how little worth he'd held in himself.

"I was terrified," he breathed, tightening his arm around her. He'd never discussed Lesley with anyone, save Francois, who'd offered sage advice that he hadn't listened to. Francois had told him to grab Lesley, marry her, and never let go. After her moonlit proposition, and the subsequent month he'd spent avoiding her, they had met again by chance. When Lesley had pressed him ever so slightly, he had been unable to casually brush off her advances because they infuriated him. Erik had thought she was making sport of him, but to his utter surprise, Lesley was sincere. Perhaps it was loneliness...or at the time the connection had been right for them both. "I can't regret what I shared with her. She was good to me, though I wasn't her first lover. She'd been engaged right after the war and her fiancée disappeared into the swamp lands. I think he was a Union soldier, and I think her father might have had something to do with him disappearing."

"That's terrible. Are you sure that you want to marry me?" Christine searched his eyes, pangs of guilt washing over her, but Erik brought his lips to her own.

"My heart was always yours," Erik murmured. "Whether you wanted it, or even whether I wanted to feel it. I could never forget you, no matter how hard I tried."

"I couldn't forget you either. I sang for you at every performance. I didn't know if you were alive. I didn't even know if you cared..."

Erik made a sound of disbelief that she would think that, and traced the curve of her cheek. "All was forgiven before you left Paris. Even before you'd left the theater that night with de Chagny. I was more hurt than angry, but I knew what I'd done was wrong. I gave you every reason to think the worst of me. If I'd been thinking, or even considerate of you, I would have sent you to him with open arms. Instead I forced you to make a choice."

"And I made the wrong ones. All of them. Every single one that took me away from you. Except...," Christine glanced away, feeling him tense beneath her, "...if I had never left Paris, I wouldn't have become who I am today. I only wish it hadn't taken me so long to learn my lesson."

"What have you learned?"

"I learned enough to know what it means to love someone." Christine laced her fingers with his. "And I love you. First the angel, and now the man."

* * *

Ah, I know you've been in the mood for tenderness! And I know some of you may be disappointed that there isn't any sex yet (you naughty wenches), but never fear! There are a couple of scenes before the end of the story. I'm still not telling who the Grandmother is, simply because it gives me evil pleasure to make you wonder if I'm going to kill Christine and bring Lesley, Viola, or (heaven forbid!) Bernadette into the fold. Or maybe I've killed Francois and now the Grandmother is Patrice! Maybe...

Oh, I so enjoy being evil ;) You still love me though, right?


	54. A Change of Plans

I am so sorry I didn't get the chapter uploaded this morning, and right after work the DH and I went out and I got my booty spanked in air hockey. We just got in and I finally got a chance to sit down and upload. Hope you all will forgive me, and welcome Mad Lizzy to the fold, lol! She's caught up with us at last.

* * *

Christine dozed against his chest, but sleep would not come for Erik. He should have told her how he felt, but at her words, he'd gotten choked again, unable to tell her. Christine knew. She _had_ to know, but from his own experience he knew what hearing them meant. Bernadette frequently told him that she loved him, and had since just after Meg had died. It had been hard as hell saying them back, and he managed now, but for years his face would flame red and his throat would ache, trying to voice his feelings. With Lesley his outburst had been fear. Honest, but fear nonetheless. What would it take to get him to tell Christine that he loved her? Hopefully nothing more than whispered words on their wedding night.

As he held her, for the first time he could see this wild part of himself being tamed - the uncontrolled love he felt for Christine, that frightened him but gave him courage to reach out to her again. Marrying her seemed the only logical choice to finally quench this desire. Despite every pain going through his body at the awkward position, he did not move until dawn when he carried Christine back to her own bedroom and laid her down in the cool, white sheets. His sweet Christine, and none too soon his bride. Erik returned to his room long enough to bathe, shave, and dress, then went downstairs to find Bernadette already in the kitchen grappling with the percolator.

"I'm getting married today," he announced.

Bernadette's arms flew up, and coffee beans flew across the room. "Good grief, would you not sneak up on me like that!" she exclaimed, spinning around to face him.

Smiling, he embraced her and lifted her off her feet. "I'm getting married," he repeated, enunciating with great care. "Today. To Christine."

"You're...oh. To..._oh_." She blinked as he set her down, then slapped him with a hand towel. "I should have known you would pull a stunt like this."

"A stunt?"

She gave him an arch look. "How long have you known she was pregnant?"

"Pregnant?" Erik gaped at her. "She's not pregnant."

Bernadette colored immediately, and faced away from him. "Forgive me. I merely assumed..."

"Well you assumed _wrong. _I asked her last night and she said yes because she wanted to marry me. Not for _any_ other reason."

After a moment of awkward silence, Bernadette spoke, "You've wanted this a long time, Erik. Congratulations."

"A long time is not quite descriptive enough, but thank you." Erik stood looking at Bernadette, silently seeking her approval, which she gave by throwing her arms around his neck. He heard her sniffle, and knew she was about to cry. "You should wake Christine," he whispered, patting her back. "She's going to need you today. More so than I."

But Bernadette couldn't let go; she held him long enough that Erik began to feel uncomfortable, struggling to tamp down his own tears of joy. "I'm so...happy for you, Erik. I just wish..."

Erik closed his eyes, knowing what was in her heart - Meg. She had never seen her daughter grow up, become a woman, and get married, and it had to be every mother's dream to see their child on their wedding day. It would be bittersweet for Bernadette to attend, and he feared she would not have the courage. "Please say you'll come. We both want you there. And Meg will be there too," he said softly.

A shuddering breath left her, and she squeezed him hard once around the waist before turning away. "I wouldn't miss your wedding," she replied, her tone raspy. "But you'd best get out of this house for a couple of hours so I can prepare your bride. Honestly, you've left me no time at all!"

Immediately Bernadette gained strength in her task, rushing to first get the broom to sweep up the coffee beans that were still scattered everywhere.

Erik was surprised to see Christine entering the kitchen, already dressed, and holding out a piece of paper toward him. "Here, this just came for you. I met the Western Union man coming onto the front porch."

Erik took the proffered telegram, a scowl deepening on his forehead as he read, "_'Patrice kidnapped. Stop. Demand diamond as ransom. Stop. Need your help. Stop.'_ Damn it! I warned Francois about something like this!"

"The girls! They cannot lose their mother!" Bernadette gasped, dropping the broom immediately, calling out for them as she rushed from the room.

Erik's breathing became shallow and harsh as his anger at the thieves overcame him along with his fear for his friends. He took Christine into his arms, his eyes also reflecting the sorrow he felt at having to delay his long dreamed of wedding to her. "Christine, I'm so sorry love, but I've got to get up there before anything happens to Patrice. I promise this won't take more than a couple of days, and then we'll have our wedding as soon as I get back. At least I know that you'll be safe here with Bernadette if the thieves are in New York."

"Erik Jeunet you are _not _leaving me here! It has taken us too many years to find each other, and I'm not letting you out of my sight again. I'm going with you!"

Erik stared at Christine in shock. Her normally soft features had hardened noticeably and her eyes had taken on a ferocious glare. Erik had never seen this Christine before, but he realized that he was now seeing the tough, strong woman who had survived hardship, hunger, and being attacked before finally achieving her dreams. Nonetheless, he could not bear the thought of any harm coming to her. Firmly he shook his head.

"I have a favor to ask of you." Gently he smoothed her worried expression away with a slow caress. "Prepare for the wedding. It will give you time to do...wedding things. You should have one that is fit for a princess. I'm sorry I can't give you more."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her with a quick kiss.

"And I need you to take care of Josephine. And Bernadette," he whispered. "She's already distraught. Please, Christine. Do this for me."

Indeed Christine could hear the crying of three young girls. Bernadette, trying to comfort the children who had been blissfully unaware of the danger their mother was in, had successfully frightened them with her own hysterical version of comfort. Her hands tightened over his arms, unwilling to let him leave her so easily. "What if something happens?"

"Nothing will happen. You'll be safe here."

"Not to me," Christine said, her voice sharpened with fear. "To you! I...I want to go with you. I'll stay with Juliette and her friends, and I promise..."

"You have a doctor's appointment to keep," he reminded her, tracing his hand down the bodice of her gown. "You've already been hurt once by this. For my own sanity, Christine, please stay here. I'm barely holding on as it is. Patrice and Francois are family to me."

"Erik..."

"Christine, please," Erik said, his face etched in pain. "Bernadette needs you. I need you to be safe."

Not liking it one second, Christine finally relented. She knew very well what Erik was capable of, though it seemed foolish to go rushing off alone. If he would not allow her to go, then at least she would see to it that he was prepared for whatever danger that faced him in New York. "Erik, do you still have the lasso?"

His expression registered first surprise, then distaste. "No, I do not."

"You must be careful. That woman will stop at nothing," she said emphatically, recalling all too well the feeling of knife sinking in flesh.

Erik said nothing about his suspicions of the woman having an accomplice. It would only worry Christine and Bernadette further, and he needed them both here and safe. He would ask his driver to once again step in and guard the house in his absence, and hopefully he would be back within a few days to wed his beautiful bride as promised.

"Promise me you will be safe," Christine pleaded, throwing her arms about his neck. "I love you. Please come home safely."

Erik stared down into her hopeful, adoring eyes, and tried to return the words. They crammed together inside his throat along with a sudden, inexplicable fear. What irony would it be if he were to die after professing his deepest love for her? How fatalistic would it sound for him to say them now, ready to rush off into unknown dangers? He didn't want to say it like this, with an impending cloud of doom hanging over himself. He wanted to tell her, to show her in so many ways, but in the dimly lit bridal suite, not in Bernadette's kitchen with three screaming children and one wailing woman in the background.

"Goodbye Christine," he said softly, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead, then bounding up the stairs to pack a suitcase. When he ventured back down, she was busy consoling Elise, and their eyes met for what seemed an eternity in longing.

Then he was gone.

# - # - # - # - # - #

His eyes weak, and his stomach rolling in both hunger and nausea, Julus opened his eyes in the dark, hot hotel room. His head was aching where that green eyed witch had struck him after she had pinched his arm viciously to see if he was awake or not. With his vision doubling, Julus made out the outline of the window, where faint sunlight shone through lacy curtains. It was most likely evening, judging by the heat still present in the air. Just the thought of another night spent on the floor, naked and vulnerable was unbearable. Although with relief he knew that the monsters who had done this would not be back, it was unsettling to wonder where they might be, and whom they might harm next.

"Jimmy, you know if Mr. Marshall catches you up here we'll both be fired!" a soft feminine voice proclaimed. It was followed by a giggle, then a shriek. "I mean it! I'm supposed to clean this room since the Smiths checked out!"

"Clean it?" a youthful voice laughed. "Come on, Betsy. I'll give you a dollar if you go in there with me for five minutes."

"Jimmy Holt, you smelly old cur dog! Why, I ought to sock you silly, right in the nose!" The threat was followed by a distinctive wallop as the girl made good on it. "Iffin' you don't leave me alone, I'll tell my Pa!"

The sound of the door turning caused a burst of panic in Julus. As much as he wanted to be found, it was not by some fresh faced maid young enough to be his daughter and her randy admirer. That bastard Gordon hadn't left him even a stitch of clothing. Well...except for his stockings, and they weren't covering nearly enough. He tried rolling behind the bed, but with his arms tied behind his back it was both painful and and useless. With a gag stuffed in his mouth, calling out would do no good, even if he could bear to shout with a raging headache. The best he could manage was to blink owlishly at the young miss as she came through the door, her expression of anger fading to shock, then an unexpected spurt of laughter.

"Lookit Jimmy! This fellar's trussed up like a Christmas goose! And not a lick of clothes on neither!"

# - # - # - # - # - #

Christine tossed restlessly most of the night, and with Josephine's feet pressed into her back, and Elise's near her chin, she was afraid to move. Exhausted and worried she finally crawled out of bed at dawn and left a note for Bernadette, stating she was going to see the doctor and get those blasted stitches removed. They were beginning to itch something awful, and she was not going to get married with them sewed within her flesh.

Saddling Erik's pinto, she rode to the doctor's small office in town, relieved to see that the front door was propped open and a woman was sweeping off the porch.

"Is the doctor in?" Christine asked, tying the horse at the rail.

"He's with a patient. You can go in and sit down if you like," the woman offered.

Christine entered the small office, wrinkling her nose at the smell of laudanum and ointment. The chairs inside were worn and faded, their tattered edges showing the yellowed stuffing beneath. Choosing to stand and wait, she gazed at the medical certificate, stating that the good doctor had graduated from an accredited medical school in Maryland. The faint rumble of men's voices piqued her interest, and she moved closer to a door which was apparently the only examining room in the office.

"And you say you're a detective?"

"Inspector," came a sour reply. "With Scotland Yard. And if you'd bloody listened to me the first bloody time, none of this would have happened!"

"Mr. Martin, I've already had a so called Inspector, with your same name and identification papers come around, stating that you were authorized to take in suspects in a murder case from somewhere called Antwip."

"Antwerp, you bloody twit," the man muttered.

"I don't appreciate your tone, Mister."

"Yeah?" the man snapped. "Well I don't appreciate being conked on the head and having my knickers stolen, so I guess I'd say we're even!"

"Don't upset him, Stanley. He's lost enough blood as it is. Why don't you come back after I've finished stitching him up?" Dr. Tott asked his friend, Chief Monroe.

Christine jumped away from the door, again pretending interest in the diploma. She heard the door open, the chief of police step out, then the scuffle of feet as he headed quickly for the door, obviously with no desire to speak with her.

"Now then, young man. We'll have you up and chasing thieves again in no time. Just keep yourself rested for the next couple of weeks..."

"Couple of weeks?" the patient groaned. "I don't have time to rest. I've got to find them before they hurt someone else. They're not just thieves. They're murderers. Cold hearted, and I'm not sure who is worse. The man...or his sister."

Her heart beginning to thrum as the man cursed about some green eyed Cockney wench pinching him, Christine knew suddenly.

"Excuse me," Christine blurted out, stepping toward the half open door. "Sir, I beg you to tell me who it is you're searching for, and why."

"Miss Christensen!" the doctor exclaimed. "You cannot be in here right now!"

"Christensen?" the patient, a rotund, balding giant of a man sat up and stared at her. "For the love of God, please tell me you're joking. Do you have any idea how long I've been trying to find you?"

"Me?" The man's expression showed an urgency that worried her further, and immediately she thought of Erik and his friends in New York. Had they any idea what they were truly getting into? "Who are you, truly, and why would you be looking for me?"

"My name is Julus Martin. I'm an Inspector with Scotland Yard," he replied quickly. "Miss Christensen, I think you'd better have a seat. My tale is a long one, and I'm certain you're going to be thankful you got away with a mere scratch when I tell you who it was that attacked you."

# - # - # - # - # - # - #

There was a reason he never traveled alone, and dammit, in his rush to leave Savannah he'd nearly forgotten why.

Nearly.

Since coming to America Erik had been to New York with Francois approximately six or seven times, stopping at various other cities along the way, and twice he had gone into Atlanta to take Lesley for an evening on the town. But each time there had been someone with him, buffering him from stares, or at least distracting his attention enough that he could pretend to ignore them. Savannah was awful enough, but people there didn't seem to mind since they believed a false history they'd managed to create all on their own. But to the rest of America that curiosity remained, those wondering what had happened, and studying his features until their morbid inquisitiveness was satisfied. A few times on the train to New York Erik turned his head to stare directly at the three wide eyed young girls who were sitting between their equally wide eyed parents, but for the most part he kept his attention fixated on the passing countryside.

He already missed his bride to be, and could not resist relishing the swell of anger at whoever had taken Patrice. Not only had they made a mistake in laying a hand on her, but delaying his wedding even a moment was unforgivable. Old urges, long buried, rose quickly to the surface. He had not felt such anger in a very long time, and how easily that anger had ruled his existence. Days of darkness, often spent with his mind in a red haze – it was not a time he wanted to return to. With his last breath he would protect those he loved, but that same determination had been misguided before, and he must never let it become so again.

When the train arrived in New York, Erik went directly to the Madison, but Francois was not in his room. After picking the lock he found it in complete disarray. Clothing was strewn across the room along with blankets, towels, and most of the hotel's furnishings were overturned. Two half finished glasses of champagne were on a table with the remnants of days old strawberries, and next to the bathroom door, he found a woman's robe streaked with blood. It had been driven into the wall with a knife, attached to a note which Erik found lying on the floor.

_"We have your wife. You know that what you have is ours. Will be in further contact."_

He had no idea where to start looking. Francois had said nothing helpful in his telegram. Juliette was somewhere in the city, but they had most likely parted company at the train station, and besides that he did not know where she would be either. With a frustrated groan, Erik left the hotel and took a carriage to Tiffany and Co., finding it closed. As he was preparing to return to the carriage, a figure slid from the shadows and approached from behind. Before he had time to turn at the slight scuffle of feet, the hard barrel of a gun pressed against his side.

"Don't turn around, Erik."

"I would not dream of it, my friend," he murmured, stepping into the darkness with Francois.


	55. Reunion in NYC

"What is this about?" Erik asked, keeping his voice low. "Francois? Is Patrice okay?"

"Quiet, Erik. Keep walking. They're watching," his friend whispered, finally removing the gun from his back and pointing it towards the ground. "I was supposed to get the diamond back today, and I failed. It's made them furious."

Once hidden in the shadows of the alley, Erik stopped, then turned to regard his friend. What he saw caused his heart to thud painfully. The man before him in no way resembled the cheerful, always witty friend he'd known the past several years. His expression was bleak, his eyes were cold and flat, and he'd been beaten quite thoroughly.

"Francois, what happened to you?" Erik asked.

"They caught me by surprise," Francois said, his eyes haunted. "I went out to get us breakfast, and when I returned...the room was torn apart and Patrice was gone."

"Are you injured? You look as if you could use medical attention," Erik said, reaching out to brace Francois as he swayed. "Did they do this to you?"

"No. The guards at the museum did," Francois muttered. "Mr. Young at the jewelry store said it was best to place the diamond there for safekeeping after...after the police came to inspect it."

"Police?" Erik glanced around worriedly. "The police are involved?" Francois just stared at him blankly, and Erik knew how worried he was about his wife. "We'll find her, Francois. Just tell me everything." The sound of footsteps beating against the street caused both of them to whip around.

"Someone is coming," his friend whispered quickly, pushing Erik further into the alley. "Meet me at the café down from the hotel tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow morning?"

"Just do it!" Francois said in a hushed, desperate tone. "They'll be watching, so don't return to the hotel. It would be better if no one knows that you are here."

"Francois..." Erik clamped his mouth shut and pressed himself against the building as a figure appeared at the end of the alley, a man with what appeared to be a lady's dress. He waved it in the air theatrically. "You're not where you're supposed to be, Monsieur Paumard," the man stated with a chilling laugh. "Do you know what this is?"

"Don't hurt her!"

"A bit too late for that, Monsieur. You did not follow my instructions. Do you know what my dear sister is doing to your dear wife, right this very moment?"

"I'll kill you for this, I swear it," Francois shouted. He advanced on the man, only to be brought up short by the sight of a pistol. Erik tensed, waiting to see what Francois would do, then his friend doubled over as if in pain.

The man laughed again. "Who knew that such a lioness existed in that matronly figure! You have two days, Monsieur Paumard. Two days. Don't forget about us. We shall surely be thinking of you!"

Erik waited several moments until the man sauntered off, then briskly moved to Francois side. "What are you doing? You're armed, why didn't you shoot him?" he demanded. "You should have shot that bastard on sight!"

"No," he said weakly. "No, they're hurting her. They're _torturing_ her. I didn't do as they said and..."

"And?"

His friend gasped for breath, sickened and stricken with guilt. "They sent me the tip of her finger," he moaned. "My wife...my Patrice. Oh, God, Erik. What will I tell our daughters?"

"We will get her back," Erik said resolutely, "and you won't have to tell them anything." As much as Erik hated to leave Francois alone in his current state, he hated even more to think of Patrice's torturer calmly walking away at that moment. Their only chance of finding Patrice was to follow the bastard, and if it took a length of rope to make the kidnapper tell him where Patrice was, then he'd use it.

# - # - # - # - # - # - #

Christine ducked to avoid a street vendor tossing a loaf of bread to a group of stray dogs, then was promptly hit with another pasty that the baker's son lobbed toward them, his aim completely off.

"Sorry Miss," the boy mumbled, ducking his head shamefacedly.

"It's quite alright," Christine said wryly, wiping a bit of strawberry fruit from her cheek. "Might you tell me where the Madison Hotel is? I seem to have taken a wrong turn, and the traffic...well," she waved a hand toward the numerous lines of carriages in the street. "It seemed easier to walk."

"Yes, yes," the baker said, throwing an impatient glance to the horde of potential customers who sat comfortably in their carriages instead of walking along and purchasing his fare . "You buy, I tell you."

Christine chuckled, recognizing the Italian accent, and the opportunistic way that he transacted his business. "A half dozen pear tarts, and a map if you can draw one."

Beaming, he complied with her demands, and she ventured again into the throng, crossing the street in a haphazard fashion, then walking another two blocks until she reached the stately Madison. She was surprised at New York being so modern. It certainly was not Paris, or even Stockholm, but it had a new world brashness, mixed with a bit of old world charm. The architecture here was interesting, although again modern, but she could see Juliette easily settling into the city. Perhaps not forever, as Juliette had always been prone to moving around frequently, but at least then she would not be so far away to visit. As an over eager bell hop showed her to the room that the Paumards were staying in, Christine grew apprehensive, wondering how angry Erik would be at her arrival. Perhaps, with a little encouragement, he might not find her appearance in New York terrible, but she was not very experienced in the matters of appeasing men – at least not _this _man.

"Here you are, Miss," the bellhop stated regally, gesturing with a flourish at the door to the Paumard's room. "Will you be needing a room of your own? I shall be happy to attend your luggage."

"No," Christine replied, giving the door a good rap. "I'll be joining my..."

"Who is it?" a muffled voice asked through the door.

Hastily passing the bellhop a handful of spare change, Christine dismissed him. "Francois? Is that you?" The door opened cautiously, and the sight of the somber faced gentleman behind the door shocked Christine.

"Who are you?" He demanded.

"Monsieur Paumard, it is I, Christine. Don't you recognize me?" After receiving no reply, she pushed slightly on the door, concerned. "Is Erik here?"

"Erik?" he repeated blankly. "No. He's gone. Erik is gone. Patrice is gone."

"Gone?" Alarm raced through Christine, and she barreled through the door, her eyes racing around the disheveled room. "What do you mean he's gone? Gone where?"

"Just gone." Francois laughed bitterly. "Not gone like Patrice. _Erik _will be back. Most likely."

Christine sniffed him suspiciously. "Have you been drinking?"

"A little," he mumbled, discreetly moving an empty bottle of wine under a table.

"Where is your wife, Monsieur Paumard? Have you tried to find her? Where is Erik? And what in heaven's name is that smell?"

"She's dead," Francois whispered. "Patrice is dead. Erik was behind me in the alley...then he just disappeared. I can't believe they've managed to find him, but I haven't seen him in days. He was supposed to meet me at the cafe, but he never showed up."

At once Francois began to sob, and Christine could not make out the incoherent babble that came from him: something about punishment, torture, and Erik's stupid plan. "Monsieur Paumard, you can't possibly know if she's dead or not. Come, get to your feet! We have to find Erik, and then we will find your wife. Alive."

"Her fingers," he murmured, digging into his pocket. He produced a small handkerchief, which he opened and stared at. "They've sent me her fingers, Mademoiselle. Of course my wife is dead."

Christine gasped, staring at two brown wrinkled fingertips. They resembled little umbilical cords one might see on a newborn child, except there was the unmistakable shape of a woman's nail.

Instinctively she embraced the man, and he broke down briefly before pushing away in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, Mademoiselle," Francois said, brushing away tears. "Forgive me."

"Have you reported your wife's kidnapping to the police? Surely they can help you to find her," Christine asked softly.

"Oh yes, as soon as it happened, before I even sent the telegram to Erik. From what I can tell, the police are working pretty hard on this case, following up on all leads. They've refused to negotiate with the kidnappers, though. Sets a bad precedent, they said. They told me they have information from Scotland Yard that leads them to think this is all linked to a murder and diamond theft in Antwerp," Francois stopped, and looked stricken to admit that Patrice, if still alive, was in the hands of violent murderers.

"Tell me what you know about Erik...and where is the diamond now? Christine questioned.

Francois sat wearily in a chair, rubbing his eyes with one hand. He set the handkerchief containing the fingertips on a desk, and stared at the floor. "As I told you, I haven't seen Erik since the night he arrived. But he's disappeared on me before." At this, Francois stopped his narrative, and laughed hollowly. "It would be alright with me if the Phantom was unleashed on that unholy pair. As for the diamond, the police took it to the museum for safekeeping, and when I tried to get it back, the museum authorities refused."

"Museum? Why was it at the museum? I thought you were taking it to Tiffany's."

"I did," Francois uttered in frustration. "Mr. Young was keeping it for me, but when I went to the police to ask about reports of anything missing of that caliber, they asked to see it, then they took it. I had little choice in the matter, and at that point, I suppose it wasn't important because none of us had any intention to make a profit from the sale. Not until the thieves took my wife..."

"So you know that there are two?"

"Yes." Francois gave her a puzzled look. "Erik told you?"

"No," Christine replied slowly. "How did he know? I just found out myself – that's why I'm here."

"He didn't want to worry you, Mademoiselle. We both knew before we left Savannah – or at least we suspected."

"The man – his name is Gordon Ehler," Christine said softly. "The woman – the one who attacked me – her name is Constance. They are..."

"Siblings?" Francois said, rising quickly, the names of the people who had been tormenting him the last few days causing a queer pain in his chest. "Yes, I know. What I don't know is which one is worse."

"Gordon," Christine replied firmly. "His sister is just a thief, and perhaps a tad bit sadistic. Gordon is a murderer, though I think she could be capable of it as well."

"How do you know all this?"

"He came to the house, Gordon that is, pretending to be an inspector. That's how he found out about you and Patrice coming to New York with the diamond. But the day after Erik left, I met a man in the doctor's office who claimed to be the exact same inspector. Gordon had knocked him out and tied him up, and posed as him so he could get his sister out of jail. They then came after you."

Christine watched as Francois slowly absorbed this, then an expression of absolute rage crossed his features, the only emotion of anger that he'd shown in a week. "Gordon Ehler," Francois said between clenched teeth. "I'm going to kill him for ever touching my wife."

Christine laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing until he looked at her. "We have to find Erik first, Francois. Do you have _any_ idea where he might have gone?"

# - # - # - # - # - # - #

Erik pried open a service door behind the hotel, his anger and disbelief growing as he recalled the familiar face he'd just seen saunter in through the front doors. Christine. What in the Hell did she think she was doing in New York? At the same time, he was eager to see her, wanting to hold her again, but more than anything at the moment, he wanted to yell at her.

Erik had been playing cat and mouse with Gordon Ehler for two days now, and he had to admit that Gordon nearly equaled his own ability at moving about unseen and disappearing at will. Twice Erik feared he had lost him, but both times with luck and patience, a rapidly disappearing commodity, he had managed to pick up the trail again. Erik now knew where Ehler was staying, although when he had searched the room in Ehler's absence, it was clear that neither the sister nor Patrice were staying there with him. He wasn't sure how Ehler was staying in communication with the sister, if he even was, but Erik assumed he had to be using the street urchins as messengers. Erik knew they were running out of time, and if he wasn't able to find Patrice soon, he would be forced to resort to violence to make Gordon reveal where he was hiding her. Erik had also played out a few other scenarios in his mind that morning as he watched Ehler. He had intended to follow Ehler when he made a move, instead he now found it necessary to sneak back into the hotel to find out exactly what his bride to be was up to. Hopefully before that same man noticed she was here, he could have her on a train back to Savannah.

Erik worried about Patrice, as he knew that Francois was doing. Unlike Francois however, Erik held hope that she was still alive. Without her, the thieves had no leverage, and if they knew that their marionette had given up on his wife's existence, they might have given him another incentive to get the diamond back. If it had been Erik whose wife had been stolen, revenge would have pushed him beyond the dredges of grief, and they would have not walked away from this scam without scars of their own, if they walked away at all. Which was exactly why he sped through a servant's entrance, through the throng of startled chef's, and up the stairs, panting by the time he reached the room. Unceremoniously opening the door, he found Francois and Christine bent over a desk, examining something intently.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he barked, slamming the door, then locking it for good measure.

They both jumped, startled. "Erik!" Christine exclaimed, pressing a hand over her heart. "We were just about to go looking for you!"

"I think not, Mademoiselle. _You _are going back to Savannah. You promised me that you would take care of Bernadette..."

"But I had to warn you..."

"But nothing!"

Christine stalked across the room, grabbed him by the lapels, and kissed him soundly. "If you would listen to me long enough, and stop assuming that I've disobeyed you – which by the way, you are not ever going to order me around while we are married – then you would find out that I had an important reason for coming here."

Erik's lips tightened, and he grabbed her by the arms, wanting to kiss her again but still angry. "Which is?" he demanded. "What possible reason could you have for coming here?"

"Well for one, I missed you," she said, giving him a narrow look. "Though it's becoming difficult to recall why. Secondly, I have information about the thieves, and I needed to warn you and see for myself that you were alright."

Erik glanced up as Francois mumbled something about giving them a moment alone, then stepped into the bedroom and closed the door. He looked back at Christine, and as much as he wanted to chastise her again, it would do no good. She was here now, and so long as she was, he would keep her safe. "I missed you as well," he confessed softly, crushing her to him then claiming her lips. Christine melted against him, her breathless gasp encouraging him to deepen the kiss, to invade the sweetness of her mouth with his tongue. "I hope you will consider returning to Savannah immediately..."

"No," Christine protested, winding her arms around his neck. "I'm staying here. With you."

Slowly she guided his hand to her own, reminding him of the ring she wore, and Erik lost his best defense. He kissed her again, his love for her winning over any fear. "Tell me everything you know, Christine," Erik finally said, wanting to find the bastards who had done this, and find Patrice alive and well. "Then I have work to do."

"What sort of work?" she asked with a frown.

Erik's smile was grim. "The sort that I thought never to do again, my love."

* * *

Shame for shame! Poor Francois was innocent all along! 


	56. Plans of Weddings and Deaths

As Erik described his plan in detail, Christine seemed to grow paler with each second that passed. Admittedly it was not the best idea he'd ever had, but given the time that had already flown by with Patrice in the clutches of those lunatics, there weren't many options left. Using Francois as bait, and setting himself up as the sole rescuer was not going to be easy, but with the stance that the police had taken of non – negotiating, Erik had decided to take matters into his own hands. The blasted diamond could be thrown into the river for all that he cared, and so long as Patrice returned safely to her husband, that was the only thing of importance.

"I'd like for you to stay with Juliette and her friends while this plays out," Erik said quietly, taking a soft tendril of Christine's hair between his fingers. "At least give me peace of mind, knowing that while I'm out there, you'll be safe."

"Erik, this is wrong," she whispered, keeping her voice low so that Francois could not hear. "Let the police handle this. It's their _job._"

"They aren't doing it well," he returned sharply. "No, this is the only way. I can't let her die, Christine. I never gave up hope that you were alive. It was unbearable, not knowing what happened to you. I failed Meg, and I failed you. I can't fail her, or Francois."

Christine captured his clenched jaw in one hand, her expression one of consternation. "You _never _failed me, and Meg's death was not your fault."

"I promised her she would be safe, and she died believing it. As for you, Christine, all I can promise is that I will never be a ghost with you again. You still want to marry me...?"

"You know that I do," Christine said softly, pressing her forehead against his and taking his cheeks into her hands. "But don't send me away. Please, Erik. I'll be safer at your side than anywhere else."

As much as he hated to admit it, that was the truth. Although the thought of her never leaving his side, especially alone in this city, was enough to weaken his resolve not to compromise her before they were married. If Christine were to stay, they would all be moving to another hotel room, and she would have to promise not to leave it under any circumstances.

"Write to Juliette and tell her what is happening. When the time comes, will you at least go to her then?"

With a slight hesitation, Christine nodded her head. "Very well, but I don't like your plan. It sounds foolish and insensible. I think you should have the police involved. It's what they are trained for."

"No arguing with me, Christine," Erik said, crossing the room to knock on the bedroom door.

Francois mumbled something from within and Erik opened the door, finding his friend pulling on a new shirt. "I'm going to find them," he said quietly. "My wife is still out there somewhere. Dead or alive, it doesn't matter, I'm taking her home."

"We will find her," Erik promised. "I have another idea, but you must keep your head clear, no matter what happens."

His friend eyed him warily, but eventually nodded. "I'm counting on you Erik, because right now, I can't think. I can't...without her, I don't know what I will do..."

"They wouldn't kill her if they still wanted that diamond, and I think they do, very much," Christine said softly. "Erik and I are going to find a replacement for the diamond, but we need you to leave the hotel so that Gordon doesn't recognize us."

"A replacement?" Francois repeated blankly. "You mean a fake?"

"As if there would be another like it on earth," Erik muttered. "Leave it to Christine to unknowingly smuggle a one of a kind diamond in the stuffing of a rabbit."

Christine gave Erik a piqued look, but chose not to make a remark. "Shall we go, Monsieur? We have shopping to do."

Erik's grimace was answer enough for his readiness, and he covered himself in a cloak, instructing Christine to do the same. "On your way out, instruct a maid to move us up a floor and into suite," he directed Francois.

"A suite?"

"Yes. It seems Christine will be staying with us until this is over."

# - # - # - # - # - #

Erik's hand never left hers as they walked out a side door of the hotel and down an alleyway, then out onto bustling Fifth Avenue. Half out of breath with the brisk pace he set, Christine was grateful when he finally slowed so that he could surreptitiously check over his shoulder for anyone who might be following them. Apparently satisfied that no one had detected their presence in the city, he released a quick breath of relief, then glanced down at her. "We're alright, I think," he murmured, squeezing her hand. "Just keep your eyes open for anything unusual."

"This is New York, Erik. Like Paris or London, every third person you meet is going to be unusual," she replied, resisting pointing to a man arguing with a street lamp as evidence. "Where are we going to find something to replace the diamond? What precisely would look like it?"

"Glass. That's all I have time to look for. There's a glassblower five blocks down, and he has some nice pieces in the display window. Would you...would you go in and describe to him what we need?"

"Of course," Christine replied, giving him a small smile because he looked slightly embarrassed to ask. "You can go in with me, Erik. If anyone dared to say anything to you, I'd set them straight."

"As much as I appreciate your kindness, Christine, I prefer simply to not attract attention to myself."

They walked in silence to the glassblower's, a three story brick building with a large window showcasing various vases in a rainbow of colors. Christine paused a moment to admire one as Erik leafed through a wallet and produced a sheet of paper with a sketch of the diamond on it, along with several bills.

"See if he can have this made by the end of today. I'll pay him whatever is necessary. If not, ask him where the next glassblower is located so that we may be on our way."

After Christine relayed to the older gentleman inside the shop what she needed, he quickly agreed to create the piece. It took several moments for her to locate something inside his shop similar in color to the diamond, but Erik had already explained that the replacement was only going to be good for something to show the Ehlers from a distance. Within a few feet it would be obvious that this was a decoy, but Erik had no intention of allowing them near the diamond. At least not until Patrice was safe, which was what Christine worried about. As she rejoined Erik outside, she thought of the pistol that was tucked inside her reticule, a gift from Juliette that she'd never had to use. Her greatest friend had not failed in teaching her to use it, but shooting at milk bottles was entirely different than using it to shoot at a person!

"Erik, what will you do if they see that it's a fake? What if they hurt you and Francois? I might never know what happened to you. I could never forgive myself for bringing this trouble into your life. Please, tell me you'll let the police know what you are doing. Perhaps they can..."

"Christine, we've discussed this. They aren't going to be any help. If Patrice is alive, they would undoubtedly rush in with guns blazing, and she'd be killed instantly. Just...trust me. It's better this way."

"How can it be better, with you going in like that – unarmed, and not knowing if they have a trap set? Erik, we've struggled so hard to find each other. What if this is all we have? What if... something happens to you?" Christine closed her eyes as fear overwhelmed her, and felt immediate relief when Erik took her in his arms.

"There is nothing for you to worry about. Gordon is expecting Francois. No one else. I promised you a wedding, and a wedding you shall have."

"This doesn't feel right to me, Erik. I don't like it."

Erik smiled despite her fierce grip on his lapels. "You don't like it because you're a woman, and it's in your nature to worry."

"I don't like it because I love you, and I think it's a stupid idea!" she denied angrily, blowing out a breath of frustration. "Would you at least take this with you?" Christine demanded, whipping the pistol out of her reticule and showing it to him.

Erik's eyes widened, and he took it from her quickly, tucking it into his jacket. "Good grief, woman! Where in the hell did you get this?"

"Juliette," Christine replied calmly. "Do you know how to use a gun?"

"Of course," Erik retorted, obviously insulted. "Do you?"

"I wouldn't be carrying it if I did not."

Erik took her by the arm and ushered her toward a park down the street. Beneath the shade of the trees, he took the pistol out and examined it, not liking the feel of it in his hand. He'd never liked guns, though he could recall hunting small game with his father's rifle when he'd been a boy. A rifle was quite different from a pistol, and he'd never pointed a gun at anyone in his life. With a slight shake of his head, he handed the gun back to Christine.

"No, I'd rather take them by surprise."

"Erik, don't be silly. This is far more effective than any other weapon, and you've admitted you no longer have the lasso."

"The sound of gunfire generally attracts the authorities, and I don't necessarily want to explain myself to them." Erik pressed a quick kiss to her lips, then smiled down at her. "Now we have a few hours before we should return to the hotel. Shall we go see Juliette? You'll need to know where she is staying, because you'll be going there tomorrow while Francois and I deal with this problem."

Christine held her tongue this time, but silently resolved that she would have to do something to convince Erik that taking the gun would be the best precautionary measure. Whether he needed it or not, at least he would have it if the situation arose.

# - # - # - # - # - # - #

Juliette's friends were staying in an upscale townhouse overlooking Central Park, lavishly decorated in a French Renaissance style that made Christine smile at their attempt. In truth it was all rather gaudy, but Mr. Smithfield seemed very kind, and he was obviously smitten with Juliette as he'd decorated her receiving room with dozens of rare flowers.

"He's the mayor's closest adviser, you know," Juliette confided after he had departed. "A well educated man, though a tad too young for my taste. He's been highly entertaining..."

"Juliette, you're looking so much better," Christine said kindly. "You've color in your cheeks now."

"Yes, well." Juliette preened, giving Erik a sly glance. "The...ah...cooler temperatures have benefited me greatly."

Erik cleared his throat and walked toward an open window, leaving them alone to converse, trying to ignore the gnawing ache that had accumulated in his stomach. Patrice was out there somewhere, injured and alone, and he knew that Francois was barely retaining his grip on sanity. Christine was worried as well – he could see it in her eyes, and despite his best attempts to soothe her fears, it was still there. Leaving her here with Juliette was no doubt the best decision for her welfare, but Christine wouldn't stand for it. He wondered what sort of sleeping arrangements they would make for the night – if he would sleep in the sitting room as he should, or do what he really wanted and lie in her arms.

Idly he listened to Christine explain what had happened to Patrice, and grimaced as his plan was laid out in the simplest of terms. Even to his own ears it sounded absurd, but if executed correctly then it would work. That big question – _if._ If Francois could be an asset, and not a hindrance, and if Christine could obey and stay hidden, then perhaps it might. And if Bernadette had any clue what he was up to, she would have a heart attack.

"Christine," Erik interrupted, "we should send Bernadette a message and let her know that everything is alright."

"Not the truth?"

"There is no need to make her worry," Erik replied with a frown. "She can focus on preparing for the wedding."

Juliette sprang up with a shriek, then grabbed Christine's hand. "Wedding? Your wedding?"

Christine laughed. "Yes. _Our_ wedding, actually."

"Not much of ring if you ask me," Juliette muttered out of the side of her mouth. "What's wrong, was the jewelry store in Savannah closed?"

"Juliette, this is the first ring that Erik ever gave me, and it's perfect. I wouldn't have accepted any other."

"Hmm. Well, if you say so." Juliette embraced Christine hard, her eyes tearing up. "Congratulations honey. I knew you'd charm his pants off one way or another."

Christine winked at Erik as he started to color, then hugged Juliette back just as hard. "I learned from the best. Say you'll come to our wedding."

"Come? You mean back to Georgia? God no," Juliette exclaimed. "Why, you'll have it here! In New York!"

"Oh, Juliette – I don't think..."

"Nonsense! Nonsense! It's perfect! Why, I'll bet Mr. Smithfield would let you have it here...or we could arrange something in the park! That would be so beautiful...something near the water, with the ducks and geese..."

"Geese?" Christine glanced at Erik, who was looking increasingly displeased, then back to her friend, who was growing increasingly excited. "Juliette, now isn't really the time. With Patrice missing, and Erik's friend not knowing where his wife is, we're really looking for something nice and quiet. Just for friends."

With a flourish, Juliette crossed to a sideboard and filled a glass with sherry. "Pish posh. It _can_ be for friends, but that doesn't mean it can't be beautiful. Just leave everything to me, Christine. I haven't any children of my own you know."

"I don't believe that Bernadette will come here," Erik stated quietly, "and I will not marry without her."

"You just leave that dear girl to me," Juliette replied, her expression determined. "Now you go off and save the day, my boy, because I have a wedding to plan!"


	57. Temptation

There is some sex at the end of this chapter.

Wait! Don't scroll all the way down just to read the juicy part! There are some very relevant parts to the story in between here and "greatest earthquake imaginable"! LOL. 

* * *

Francois was waiting for them at the top of the central stairs, a fierce look in his eyes that had not been there before. Erik pushed her on past him without a word, and Christine didn't detect Francois' presence again until they'd reached the third floor.

"Ehler claims she's still alive, Erik," Francois said quietly from behind them. "He said if I can have the diamond to them by tomorrow night, then they will release her."

"Where are our new rooms? We shouldn't be discussing this out here."

"The hotel only had one available, and it was a single. I booked it for Christine, and I'm keeping mine. Fifth floor, room five twelve."

Christine glanced at Erik, saw his mouth tighten, and knew he was not pleased. He'd already stated that the best way for them to come through this was to stick together, especially when they were sleeping and most vulnerable. Erik said nothing until they had mounted an additional two flights of stairs and Francois handed him the key.

"Whose name is she listed under?"

"Miss Jones," Francois replied impatiently. "Do you think Patrice is really alive?"

"Yes," Erik said firmly. He produced the heavy glass replacement for the diamond from his pocket for Francois to inspect. "It's not perfect, but it's close enough. As long as you don't drop it, or let them inspect it, we should be fine."

Francois frowned at the imitation, his skilled eyes detecting immediately that it was a fake, but it was nearly a match in shade, and the maker had done an excellent job on the cut. "Ehler tailed me right up to the museum, so he's still keeping a close eye on me. I told him I'm doing it tomorrow right after it opens. He wants me to meet him to exchange it somewhere else."

"Why not outside the museum?" Erik demanded. "I'll not have them laying a trap for you. Did he say where?"

"No. He said he would send a messenger to the hotel after I've gotten the diamond." Francois hesitated a moment, his expression fearful. "He also said that if I try to contact the police again, he'll kill her whether or not I have the diamond, to teach me a lesson. His sister has her somewhere..."

Christine crossed the room and lit a lamp, noting that someone had brought her one small valise up and laid it on the bed. She wasn't even sure if she'd packed everything she needed – at the time she'd been more concerned with finding Erik than whether or not she had an ample change of clothes. Now she wondered if Erik would be staying here with her, and what in the world she was going to do if kisses turned into something more. This close to her wedding, it would be so easy to give in, yet a large part of her wanted to save that special night until they were wed. But what if Erik didn't survive this? What if...

"I'll be following Gordon tomorrow when he leaves the museum. I know he'll be close by," Erik said, interrupting her thoughts. "I'll go there first thing in the morning, and scout out a good location from which to watch. I'll hire a messenger if I need to contact you."

"What about her?" Francois asked, trying to keep his voice low. "Is she going to stay here?"

"I'll deliver her to Madame Dvorak first thing tomorrow. I'm sure Madame will keep Christine occupied with...something," Erik said, glancing at Christine. He had not mentioned to Francois that Christine had agreed to marry him, and planning a wedding right now seemed wrong. Even if Patrice was alright, the terror of the last few days would not likely put her in the mood to attend, and he very much wanted both his friends present. "You should go eat something; get a good night's rest. I'll wake you when I leave in the morning."

Francois rubbed a hand across his face. "I couldn't possibly sleep. I haven't in days...I just keep hearing her. She's screaming. Every time I close my eyes, I can hear her." He tilted his head back, stretching and cracking his neck. "I'm going back to my room. Her things are there. I want to be near them," he mumbled before waving a hand at Christine and leaving.

"Well," Erik said, rubbing his hands together after he had secured the door.

"Yes," Christine replied, clearing her throat. "I...ah...are you going to be staying? Here?"

Erik glanced at the bed, then quickly away. "Well, I had hoped Francois had arranged for a suite. If you would prefer changing hotels..."

"No. No, it's fine. I mean, we're about to be married. We shall have to become used to sharing a room, obviously...and a...bed."

Erik's face heated, and he shook his head. "I will take the chair. You will sleep in the bed. Alone."

"Erik," Christine said, her voice softening. "You don't have to sleep in the chair. We spent the night in each other's arms not a week ago, and I..."

"You what?" he asked quickly, though he could not meet her eyes.

Christine smiled nervously. "I found it difficult to fall asleep without you. Impossible, really."

His gaze finally made it's way to her, traveling slowly from the hem of her dark green gown to her wide brown eyes. In an instant he knew what a mistake it was going to be, staying here with her and trying not to touch her. The silence centered them in the room, and as slowly as her arms went around his neck, his equally stole around her waist.

"I missed you," she whispered, raising on her toes to press a small kiss to his lips. "I spent my last night at Bernadette's sharing a bed with two very ungracious children, and I couldn't sleep on the train because I was so worried about you."

"You don't have to worry about me, Christine," Erik murmured. "I've always taken care of myself."

"Yes, you have. But you don't have to anymore." She captured his hand and pressed it to her cheek. "I'm here now. And I need you too. So please...be careful tomorrow."

"I would never dream of disappointing my bride to be."

"Your bride to be wants a kiss."

"I'll give you everything, Christine," he whispered, tilting her face up and brushing his lips across hers, a touch so light they both yearned for more.

"What about a night that would last forever?" Christine asked breathlessly. "If something happens, I want something to remember..."

"No. We should wait," Erik replied, kissing her again, then again. "But as long as we're...here...," he muttered, dragging his hands through her hair and loosening it, then pushing the cloak from her shoulders, "and there is no one else...oh, Christine, you should stop me now before it's too late."

"Why? Why should we wait?" Christine guided his hand down, breaking the kiss and meeting his eyes as she placed his palm across her breast. "There's no reason in the world why we should wait. Is there?"

Erik's mouth went utterly dry, and flames ignited within him. Instinctively his hand became an uncontrolled thing, and with a desperate sound he met her lips again, plunging his tongue deeper inside her mouth this time, fueling a fire that he hadn't wanted to start. Christine moaned and melted in his arms, drawing him nearer with searching, eager hands, touching warm skin and coarse hair. A rolling wave built within, not ebbing, only growing stronger and stronger with each breath, with each caress.

"I always envisioned..." Erik trailed his hands back up to her neck, stroking the fierce pulse that beat beneath her soft skin, "that if you were ever with me...the way a man and a woman are together...that we would be married. I'm sorry, Christine. That is what I want for us. If we continue, I won't be able to resist." Reluctantly he set his hands firmly on her shoulders, and stepped away. Each of them stood, breathing hard and expectantly waiting for the other to capitulate to the flames again, until Erik walked several feet away from her to the window and looked out at the city.

"Erik, do you still see me as a child?" Christine asked quietly.

"No." He turned his head, his eyes moving appreciatively over her body in a way that warmed her heart. "I stopped seeing you as such when you were about sixteen. I knew that I would never have you the way that I wanted, but I couldn't help but look. You were...are...beautiful, Christine. Too beautiful for me."

Christine felt her heart drop at the vulnerable look in his eyes, but it was gone so quickly she knew that he hadn't wanted her to see it. A quiet pang of regret made her shiver, but instead of pulling away as she might have done in the past, she went to him. "I love you. Don't say things like that," she said softly. His eyes closed as she reached up to touch the scars on his face, but he didn't stop her. "I know that you care for me. You don't have to say it if you..."

His bitter laugh cut her off, and he gathered her against him. "So much that it frightens me, Christine," Erik whispered against her hair. "So strong, that I knew it would never die. My love...and my greatest weakness. Or at least that was what I once thought."

Christine raised her face up to his, her eyes searching. "Weakness?"

"Not anymore," he replied gruffly. But he was afraid to lose control, afraid because he'd done that once before with Christine, and it had been such a disaster. If he made love to her now, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from giving her everything, and taking it as well. That right belonged to no one other than her husband, and the more he thought about _that_, the less he was inclined to wait. What if he died, never knowing her touch? "I used to think that loving you meant that I was weak, but it wasn't love that made me do those things - it was fear. I wish I had known you could look at me the way you are right now. It would have made my existence so much easier to bear."

"You once made my days and nights worth living for." She raised on her toes for a kiss that melted his knees. "Now, I want to do the same for you. Starting with...tonight."

His control that he'd desperately wanted to hold, suddenly snapped, breaking a years long vow that he'd never wanted to see end. He was overcome with a need to conquer, to love her and to explore each inch of delicate skin, knowing that now nothing stood in his way. Erik kissed her with an urgency and hunger that he'd wanted to keep hidden, at least until she took his name and there would no longer be any escape. Christine had always made him feel on edge, nearly violent in love and tenderness, and now she'd gathered her courage and tossed them both over a precipice that neither could return to.

Only knowing her innocence kept him from tearing at her clothes, as she ran her hands down his shirt buttons at a frantic pace that set his blood to boiling. He groaned at the first touch of her cool fingers on his warm chest, dragging his mouth from hers down to her neck. "Christine," he muttered softly, his tongue and teeth tracing a hot circle up to her ear. "It would be so much better if we wait. Are you very sure?"

She didn't answer directly, instead, she unbuttoned the high neck of her dress, then turned to let his nimble fingers do the rest. He kissed the creamy nape of her neck, drawing her backwards in his arms and cupping her breast. His arousal grew more evident when she gasped, feeling her nipple tighten, welcoming his palm. He made short work of her dress, took longer with her corset, and the chemise nearly ripped in his impatient hands before he decided to leave it on. Erik turned her and simply looked, his eyes darkened to a point of desire she'd never thought possible, and the bloodless set of his lips growing wide in an unwilling sign of shock.

"Now it's your turn," Christine said, half shy, half minx as she pushed the shirt and waistcoat from his shoulders. He was beautifully made, chiseled just as finely as a sculpture in Rome or a statue in Paris. He was built the way a man ought to be, with wide shoulders, long limbs, and the sinewy flesh that looked hot and soft to touch. She did so, jerking back with a nervous laugh when his chest muscles leaped in anticipation. "You have gooseflesh," she whispered, tentatively running a hand up his arm. "Are you cold?"

"Far from it," he replied, his voice dark and deep as he reached for her. The ends of her hair caressed the back of his hands as he brought them together, leg to leg, breasts to stomach.

"What do you think Bernadette would say if she knew we were here like this?"

Erik grimaced. "I'd rather not dwell on that, thank you."

"I suppose you'd better kiss me then, before I change my mind."

His eyes closed briefly, catching the nervousness in her expression which matched his own. Erik's kiss was tender, loving, and far too brief. Christine didn't question him as he led her to the bed, but she tensed automatically as his hands untied the ribbons to her drawers.

"Are you afraid, Christine?"

She shook her head, but jerked guiltily as the tip of his finger traced her inner thigh. "I trust you."

Erik shifted onto the bed beside her, kissing her back into the pillows, slowly and languidly until she relaxed. Whispering his love against her skin, he delved gently into the folds between her legs, gasping as he felt her readiness. Christine's moan of startled pleasure reverberated in his ear, and he captured the sound with his mouth, pressing inside, then back out to the swollen, sensitive place that begged for his touch.

"Erik!" Christine's hips arched beneath his hand, and her eyes flew to his. She caught the prideful, purely male expression and the satisfied smile just as he stroked once, twice, before a million stars exploded inside her body, moving through her with the force of the greatest earthquake imaginable.

The sweet sounds that left her lips were the greatest compliment imaginable, and he watched with wonder as she floated away, then slowly back down into herself again. And then slowly – and with great regret – he covered them both with a blanket.

Christine stared at him, confused. "That's all?"

Erik chuckled, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her against him. "Does that feel like _all_, my love?"

She blushed more, if that were possible. "You know what I mean. Juliette has explained things to me, and I..."

"That is all for now," Erik said softly. "When I make love to you, we'll be man and wife."

* * *

Well I hope that temporarily satisifed your lust. There are about 9 more chapters left, meaning this story will be completely uploaded in a month. I'll almost be sad to see it go...

This is not the only chapter that earns the M rating. There are maybe 2 more. 


	58. The Little Accomplice

So sorry for the late upload. IAPG is getting a new house (Doing the bus stop, electric slide, AND the robot!) and she's been out all night. Thanks for your patience!

* * *

Erik woke to the sound of splashing water, and opened his eyes to darkness. He moved a hand across the bed, and it was still warm from Christine's body, but she wasn't there.

"What are you doing?" he asked sleepily. "Come back to bed."

"I'm...I'm bathing," came a meek reply.

Instantly waking, he tried to peek around the room, but couldn't make out a bloody thing. "Bathing? In the dark? You know, there is this fabulous invention called lamps, and we happen to have one or two in this very room."

Erik blinked as a several drops of water were flung across the room into his face. "It's too early for sarcasm."

"Indeed. So why are you awake, and why are you taking a bath?" Erik asked, reaching out to light a lamp beside the bed, focusing immediately on the woman sitting with her back turned, disappointed when he realized she was not in a tub, but washing from a basin. But her torso was completely bare, and he could see the elegant alabaster line of her back, half hidden by long dark tresses.

"It's nearly five. I knew you wanted to have an early start on Gordon," Christine said quietly, sliding a glance over her shoulder. "Would you...would you...?"

Erik left the bed instantly. "Do you need assistance?"

Christine held out a hand with the washcloth, crossed one arm over her breasts, then lifted her hair with the other. She smiled as he ran the cloth over her back, not meeting his eyes. "This is hardly the luxury suite, but I've slept in worse places."

Erik grunted as he sat beside her on the bench. "Yes, your story of sleeping under the bridge was very entertaining - almost as much as the story of you falling _off _the bridge. Why were you on a bridge after dark anyway?"

"I was thinking of jumping," she blurted out softly.

Erik's hand stilled immediately. "You were what?"

Christine grabbed the closest thing she could find, which happened to be Erik's shirt, and slipped it on. "I hadn't meant to tell you that, but I'm afraid right now. Just like I was then. I can't bear the thought of losing you."

She looked at him then, and his heart tore at the tears in her eyes. "Christine..."

"I love you. I've waited my entire life for this...well, not exactly this, because of course if I had waited for love then I would have had the courage to love you when we were in the opera house together, but I didn't, and if I lose you now it will be unfair and devastating."

"Are you finished?"

Christine gulped for breath and shook her head. "No, I'm not. You should really tell me that you love me _very clearly_, because if I don't hear it again and you die, then I'll never forgive you. I know that you do, I just want to hear you say it like you did before. Furthermore, I think this cock brained scheme you have with Francois is exactly that, cock brained, and believe you me, I know a thing or two about that sort of thing. I've seen plenty of stupid schemes in opera the last eight years, and this one is very stupid."

"I love you, Christine."

Her face crumpled and she buried her face against his neck, quietly crying. "Promise me, Angel. Don't ever leave."

"I won't," Erik whispered, holding her tight. "Don't...don't cry, please. Look," he tilted her face up, trying to offer a smile, "Juliette is going to have you so busy today that you aren't even going to think of me. You'll go buy a wedding dress, a veil; I'll even let you pick out my suit. Whatever you want, it's yours. Just please stop crying. I always hated to see tears in your eyes. I swear, between you and Meg, you were the biggest watering pots in all the opera house."

Slowly Christine composed herself, though the fear in her heart remained. She couldn't quite let him go though, remembering the way his hand had been inside of her and regretting that they hadn't done more. "Erik, there's still time," she said urgently. "Make love to me, please."

"Love, there's nothing I want more, but trust me, there isn't enough time. Not to do it properly anyway." He groaned softly as she parted his shirt, offering the first real glimpse of what he'd wanted to see earlier. Her breasts were small but perfect, and since she'd seemed to abandon modesty for the moment, he decided to do the same. Christine inhaled sharply as his mouth lowered to one, nuzzling gently. "Ah, you shouldn't have. I'm so glad you did, but you shouldn't have."

They both jumped in surprise at a soft rap on the door, and Christine hurriedly gathered Erik's shirt back around her.

"That's probably Francois," he said quietly. "I'll take care of it."

"Right!" Christine leaped from the bench and dove back to the bed, pulling the covers to her chin.

Erik gave her an amused smile. "Can I have my shirt?"

Blushing, she removed it beneath the blankets and tossed it to him. "You should probably let me answer that. It wouldn't do for anyone to know we spent the night together."

"Concerned now? By all means get dressed and answer the door," Erik replied dryly. "In any case, Francois won't say anything. Not to Bernadette anyway."

Christine stared at him a moment, then pulled the covers over her head, and Erik opened the door cautiously only after Francois had said his name once.

"Are you ready?" Francois asked, looking as if he had not gotten any sleep.

"Christine needs to finish dressing, then I'll be off. You'll go out before us...make sure Gordon follows you?"

"I'm leaving now. Be careful, mon ami."

"You as well," Erik returned, briefly squeezing Francois on the shoulder.

He closed the door, his heart heavier in his chest as he met Christine's somber gaze.

"It's time?" she asked, forlorn.

Erik nodded. "I'm afraid so."

# - # - # - # - # - #

Erik delivered Christine to Juliette's, regretting that they had had no more time together, but just as eager to be done with the business at hand. As he took his place in the darkness of Central Park, directly across from the museum, he made a note of his surroundings, trying to determine where Gordon would be hiding. Erik was delighted when his surprisingly careless target showed up a little after daylight, descending from a carriage down the street and immediately heading toward an alley beside the museum. Francois arrived only moments later, keeping his head down as he waited for the museum to open. Erik looked around anxiously for any signs of Constance Ehler or any other accomplices, but there were not many people out this early.

Somewhere in the distance a church bell tolled at seven, and a guard appeared in the front to unlock the museum doors. Erik held his breath, watching Francois walk in with no apparent recognition from the guard. All he could hope was that the other guards did not recognize Francois either, and toss him out on his ear.

In just under an hour Francois came out of the museum unassisted, walked across the street within spitting distance from Erik, and pulled the fake diamond from his pocket for several moments. Assured that Gordon was watching, he hailed a cab and returned to the hotel.

As Erik suspected, Gordon followed, then once they arrived at their destination, passed off a note and a handful of bills to a street urchin. Torn, Erik decided to follow the boy. With any luck he could catch the little imp and get the address from him without actually having to go there.

# - # - # - # - # - # - #

Christine worried her lip, pulled the same strand of hair until she was surprised it didn't come out, and paced the same space of carpet so much that Juliette complained she was dizzy. By the time the dress maker that she had hired arrived, Christine was so fraught with worry that more pins were stuck in her than the dress, and she wasn't even certain she could stand to wear the damned thing.

"What good will this dress do me if he's dead?" she demanded. "I can't do this right now! I just can't!"

Impatiently she began to remove it, much to the horror of the woman who created the beautiful ensemble.

"Miss, please! You'll ruin it!"

"I want it off! Get this blasted thing off of me!"

"Christine, stop! Erik is not going to die! Honestly, haven't you had enough drama in your life already? Would you just stand still a moment!" the frustrated diva exclaimed, giving Christine a good shake. "Calm down! You're worse than I am at times, I swear it!"

The dress maker carefully removed each piece, casting a disgruntled look at the bride before placing the sections of bodice into a basket. "I believe I have enough measurements to complete the dress. I will have it finished in three days."

Christine quickly threw a robe on and resumed her pacing.

"Honestly darling, if you do not sit down I will be forced to tie you to a chair. Now it was never really my thing, I assure you, but I happen to know that Mr. Smithfield finds it vastly entertaining."

Christine spun around quickly, gaping at Juliette in sudden realization. "That's it! Mr. Smithfield! Why didn't I think of it before? Now I know how I can help Erik!"

Juliette looked at her doubtfully. "Well, I think you'll have a hard time convincing either one of them. Quite frankly, Mr. Smithfield prefers women, and judging from that kiss Erik gave you this morning, I think he feels the same."

"Can you be serious a moment? When is Mr. Smithfield expected home?"

"He's still in bed darling. Late night and all that. Such a shame a younger man cannot keep up with an old woman like me..."

"You said he's the mayor's advisor, right?" Christine demanded. "Well the police have been less than helpful with us, but I know how convincing you can be. I need that real diamond. If Erik and Francois walk in there with the fake one, there's going to be bloodshed, and I fear it will be theirs."

"Yes, I rather thought that was a stupid idea myself," Juliette mused. "Very well. I shall wake Mr. Smithfield, and demand that he goes to see his boss immediately. Don't worry dear, he doesn't live so very far away."

"You think that he'll help us?"

"Darling, after the secrets Mr. Smithfield has shared, I think he might give me The Met itself. But I'll settle for one bloody diamond."

# - # - # - # - # - #

Erik tailed the kid right through Central Park then out into an abandoned railroad yard on the Hudson, watching from a distance as he entered a crumbling office building then emerged moments later. Beating him back to the edges of the park, Erik nabbed the boy just as he stopped to count out his wages. The boy gave a frightened yelp, but Erik held him by the collar, giving him no time to escape.

"Who did you just meet?" Erik demanded.

"Help! Somebody help!"

"Quiet!" Erik said sharply, clamping a hand over the kid's mouth. "I'm not going to hurt you, just tell me who you just met!"

The boy wouldn't stop struggling, and after earning several kicks to the shin, Erik pinned him to the ground. "No, Mister! No!"

"Shh, calm down child," he soothed, struggling to gentle his tone. "I won't harm you. There's a friend of mine hurt in there, and I want to help her. Did you see anyone? A woman?"

"He said I wasn't supposed to talk to nobody, now let me go!" the boy exclaimed vehemently.

"Tell me what I want to know, and you'll go free."

"There's a lady in there. She's got a cut on her face and hand and she's crying."

Erik let out a breath of relief, knowing that must be Patrice. "Anyone else?"

"A pretty lady. She's mean as a snake, and she made the other lady cry."

"That's all? Two women? Does the pretty lady have a gun?"

"Yeah. A bunch of 'em. Can I go now?"

"Did the man outside the hotel say anything to you? Are you supposed to meet him again? What did the note say?"

"I can't read too good, but I think it said something about a rock. He told me to go home and if he saw me again he'd box my ears."

Erik grunted and helped the kid to his feet. "A sound idea. Go home and stay there till tomorrow. If I catch you out here, I'll turn you over to the coppers."

The boy's eyes widened. "I didn't do nothing!"

"Yeah, well that's a matter of opinion, isn't it? Now go home before I change my mind."


	59. Unraveling

Central Park was a beautiful place, full of life and shade. A peaceful rendezvous for family, a hideaway for mischievous youths, and above all the perfect place for a crime.

Namely, murder.

Erik wasn't certain what decided Gordon's fate, or why he would have to die beside a lovely patch of wildflowers at the bottom of a slight hill, simply that the opportunity presented itself so easily when Gordon passed close to his hiding place, and the phantom in him rose and swiftly took it. Erik pictured Patrice and the terror she must have been feeling, and he remembered that without Gordon in the way, his friend stood a much higher chance of surviving.

Death by strangulation had never been pretty, especially when done with a rusty piece of wire found off an old fence in the park. His own hands were fine, protected by gloves, but the flesh of Gordon's neck had been deceptively strong. It had given Erik just enough time to reflect on what he was doing, and upon Christine's probable reaction to it. Even Francois's for that matter. In the end, he had simply left Gordon badly injured and unconscious, but still alive. He broke off two more pieces of wire, twisting the ends together to bind Gordon's hands and feet. Erik knew that with any amount of struggling Gordon would be able to free himself, but it would be some time before he would even regain consciousness. Erik intended to have Patrice freed before that happened and to send the police to deal with Gordon.

Erik took the gun tucked in Gordon's pocket, and then rolled him behind some bushes and covered him with leaves, kicking them around to cover the copious amount of blood. Even without killing the bastard, it had taken more energy than Erik thought he would have to expend.

Killing was a young man's vice, and one that had never been particularly enjoyable. Erik realized that he was no longer that cruel, unfeeling young man.

If he thought about it, Buquet might have survived if he'd kept his mouth shut, or simply left him alone, but it was hard now to remember why or even when he'd decided to end that life. Piangi had of course survived, but that had been merely a trick of fate. He hadn't meant to let him live, though now Erik could at least admit to himself that the man had not deserved to die. As for the others - the gypsy who'd enslaved him, and one or two men unfortunate enough to cross him when he'd been younger and full of anger and hate - regret for them he wasted his time on.

Erik pondered his next move as he washed his gloves quickly in the pond. His instincts told him to return directly to the abandoned warehouse, take out Constance, and rescue Patrice. After all, he'd always worked alone before, and murdering a woman was not something he wanted anyone to see him do. Instead he hesitated, uneasy at the thought that something he might do could get Patrice killed. Turning back, he went to the hotel, knowing it would not matter anymore if he were seen. Gordon was comatose and Constance was still at the warehouse. Lumbering up the stairs, he hadn't even made it to Francois's room before his friend was charging down the hall, his face pinched with worry.

"What's wrong? I saw you crossing the street. Where is Gordon?"

"Don't worry about Gordon," Erik said quietly, handing Gordon's gun to Francois. "Take this. Is it loaded?"

Francois checked quickly. "Yes. Is that..blood on your shirt?"

Erik cursed, then buttoned his coat all the way up and repositioned his cravat. "Gordon's. I met up with him in the park. The bastard was whistling. _Whistling._ I couldn't just let him walk by me one more time."

"He's dead?"

Erik shook his head. "No, but he's unconscious and tied up. Now look, Francois. I don't know what's going to happen down there tonight. Whatever it is, will you do whatever is necessary?"

"Yes._Yes_, so long as I have her back. As long as she's still alive..

"She's alive," Erik replied, telling him about the messenger boy. "We should go in just after dark. We've still got a little time, but I want to go now and pick out a place near the old warehouse to wait. We'll be able to keep on eye on anyone entering or leaving, and we might be able to figure out how we're going to get in."

Francois nodded, then his eyes widened. "Do you think we should leave a note for Christine? In case..something happens?"

"Good idea. I'll leave one in her room. With any luck" Erik added grimly, "she will never see it."

Christine held tightly to the velvet case, unable to believe the trouble that the mayor had gone through to wrest the diamond from the museum director. Only when threatened with dismissal did the man relent, though he promised severe consequences if something should happen to the gem. She had wanted to inform him that if it weren't for her, then he wouldn't have come into possession of the diamond in any case, and that if truth be told, the stone would be better served in another institution, such as the Louvre. Juliette had been wonderfully persuasive with the mayor, and nearly a hoyden when faced with the snobbish director, but ultimately they had gotten what they wanted.

Now Christine was grappling for both the case, and for purchase on the carriage seat as the driver careened through the busy streets of New York. If he hadn't been promised a purse full of silver, he likely wouldn't be risking his own neck, but such a sum was hard to come by, and very good fare, even for Manhattan. By the time they stopped before the Madison, Juliette's face was set in an angry scowl and her hair had tumbled down her back. Without waiting for the driver's assistance, Christine rushed from the carriage, knowing very well Juliette would not set a foot outside unless she was more presentable. Dashing up the stairs past bewildered guests, she went straight to Francois's room and pounded on the door. Receiving no answer, she crossed her fingers and raced to her own room, fumbling several moments with the key before successfully opening the door.

"Erik?" she called out. "Erik?"

Spinning around wildly in the center of the room, she nearly missed the note lying across the neatly made bed.

_Christine,_

_If Francois and I have not returned by morning, please direct the police to Warehouse 68 on the old railroad docks on the other side of Central Park. Do NOT come searching for us. I do not expect there to be trouble, and I shall see you before the night is over. It is safe now for you to remain here at the hotel alone. Please trust me._

_All my love --_

_Erik_

"Oh, you foolish man!" Immediately thoughts of Erik being shot went to the forefront of Christine's mind, and panic hit her. Clutching the note to her chest, she crossed the room and retrieved the reticule that Erik had bade her leave behind – the one containing the pistol. Thrusting the diamond into the reticule, she raced out the door and down the steps of the hotel. It was still light, but the sun was beginning to set. Knowing Erik, he would want to strike after dark, which meant she had about half an hour or so to make it to the other side of Central Park. Her carriage was still waiting for her, and Juliette was standing outside of it cursing about her ruined hair.

"Can you take me here?" Christine demanded, thrusting the note out to the driver.

He glanced dubiously at the address, then gave it back to her. "Miss, this is not a safe place to be after dark."

"I can take care of myself," Christine returned impatiently. "Can you take me or not?"

"I wasn't worried about you," he muttered, "I was worried about myself."

Christine turned to Juliette, giving her the note. "Can you get the mayor to send the police here?"

Juliette scanned the note, her eyes filling with worry. "You aren't going there are you?"

"I have to. I have what they want, and Erik could be in danger."

"Not as much danger as you will be," Juliette protested. "No, I don't like this idea, Christine. Erik is a grown man and knows what he's doing. If he says its safe now, then it must be. Just come upstairs and we'll order something to eat."

"No. I promise I'll be careful, but I have to see if I can find him. And please bring the police. Please." She hesitated a moment, realizing what she was doing - turning him over to the police. Shaking her head quickly, she chided herself. This was different. This time it was to save his life, not to hurt him. "Wait, don't do that. Don't take the police there. At least not yet. Do as the note says. If I'm not back by morning, then do it."

"Christine, this is foolish!"

"I'm sorry, but I have to go."

Christine quickly embraced her friend and gave her the key to her hotel room. Within moments the carriage was once again hurrying through Manhattan, this time straight into Central Park along an eerily empty thoroughfare. They emerged on Central Park West, continued on toward the Hudson, crossing Broadway, then finally entered the decaying port areas along the river. The driver stopped roughly a block away from Warehouse 68, refusing to go further.

Christine passed him a handful of coins, looking up and down the row of derelict structures, uncertain what each appeared to be, and where she should be going.

"Which one is sixty eight?"

"How should I know, Miss? This place is ready to be torn down, has been for years."

Christine took an uncertain step forward, then glanced back to the man.

"If it helps, I see light coming from that dilapidated building next to the old gypsum plant," the man offered, pointing to a structure that set directly on the waterfront. "Of course, it could be vagrants living there, but that place hasn't been in business in close to fifteen years."

At once Christine could make out the light that she'd missed, and stared across the expansive mud filled railroad yard that led to the river. Weeds shot up waist high in some places, and there was no discernible path. On the other side of the river was the faint glow of lights from tenement apartments, the fire traps of New York. When the carriage driver urged his horse on, Christine knew it was probably a mistake to continue on alone, but Erik was out here somewhere. Taking the gun from her purse, she walked unsteadily toward the old warehouse. Halfway there, she glanced uneasily over her shoulder, and could make out the shadow of a man stumbling along behind her. He wasn't hard to miss – several times he coughed violently as if something were stuck in his throat. Immediately she knew that it wasn't Erik, so Christine ran straight for the front entrance of the building, ducking behind a half destroyed wooden fence. She peered through a hole, catching sight of the man as he fell to his knees, coughing violently again.

"Gordon?" a woman's hushed voice came from the building.

"Go back inside!" It was a strange, inhuman rasp.

"What's wrong with you?"

Instead of answering the man surged to his feet, breathing heavily. The sound of a door opening drew Christine's attention to the building, and she watched as the woman who had stabbed her rushed out, her face a mask of severe annoyance.

"What took you so long, Gordon? We were supposed to meet hours ago. I've been setting everything up by myself!"

"That scarred up freak of nature tried to kill me," Gordon choked out, pushing her away from him. "Where is that bastard's wife? I'm going to kill her now and be done with it!"

Constance held the light up high, and Christine could make out red splotches of blood all across Gordon's face and neck. It looked as if his throat had almost been slit. He coughed again, and she pressed hand over her mouth as a spray of blood left his neck.

"What freak?" Constance demanded.

"Jeunet. He's here. In New York!" Gordon replied tightly. "Now bring the woman. I'm through playing games."

"But you said they have the diamond," she argued. "What good is she going us to do if she's dead?"

"I said bring her!" he replied, striking her across the face. "I'm in no mood for you, sister. You're the one who got us in this coil in the first place, and like always, I'm getting us out."

Constance, taking no quarter from her brother, backhanded him with equal force. "I told you once, you son of a bitch, never touch me again. And I'm not the one who wanted to involve the Paumards. We're thieves. It's what we do. We could have had that diamond by now, but you wanted to get your hands dirty. If you want to kill her, fine, but I'm not leaving without what I came here for."

Gordon pushed past his sister, and they both disappeared inside the building, leaving the door open. Fear curled around Christine's heart, and compassion for the woman who was inside, awaiting death. She could not let Patrice die, and Erik was nowhere in sight. It had to be her, and it had to be now. Summoning a courage she had gained from years of living on her own, Christine moved out from behind the fence, and headed toward the opening.

* * *

I want to again mention the story **_Letters to Erik_** (Story ID: 4055271) by Clever Lass aka An Wallace which has been published. You can get it online either through Amazon or do what I did and download the ebook through Outskirts Press (quicker and cheaper). She also wanted me to mention that whoever requests (via her email which you can find on her profile) it can have a signed bookplate. Mine is coming in the mail! 

Whose ready for Monday? :D 


	60. Showdown

Erik could hear voices from his position on a ledge near one of the second story windows, and recognized one of them as Gordon's. Muffling a curse, he stepped through the broken wooden frame down into a room filled with the smell of chemicals, hoping that Francois had entered by now from the back. He also hoped his friend could maintain his sanity and not run haphazardly through the building calling his wife's name.

He was thankful that at least Christine would be safe. If it had been her taken, he would have tortured Gordon until he'd confessed every crime he'd ever committed. As it was, the bastard would be lucky if restraint was still within him once Patrice was found.

Making his way out into the hall, Erik listened carefully. Gordon and his sister were arguing – loudly – about whether or not to kill Patrice now, then Constance shouted, "If you want to kill her, fine, but I'm not leaving without what I came here for."

"Where is she?"

"She's upstairs in an office. I think it's foolish to do this now. If she's dead, we have nothing to bargain with."

"They don't have to know she's dead," Gordon replied foully. "I think it fitting that I kill her in the same manner that ugly freak tried to do me in with."

Looking around quickly, Erik noticed there were three doors behind him, and three in front. Constance had just stated that Patrice was up here, which he meant he was between them. He had no idea where Francois was, but it wouldn't matter. His friend would know how to take care of himself. There was no way that he could allow those two up the stairs. Taking a deep breath, he walked to the edge of the stairs.

"Don't move!"

Shock, then anger rippled through him at the sound of Christine's voice from below. _What in the hell was she doing here? _

"I said don't move!" she yelled forcefully, though he detected a tremble in her tone. "I have what you want. Leave Patrice alone."

Gordon's laughter cut through Erik like a knife, and he moved silently down the stairs, just far enough to see his fiancée pointing a gun at both of the Ehlers.

"No, don't tell me," Gordon said, his voice raspy from the strain of his earlier choking. "They sent you to make the exchange? A _woman_?"

"Step away from the stairs, Mr. Ehler. I'm terribly accurate with this," Christine replied, ignoring him. "I just want Madame Paumard, and you can have the bloody diamond. Now tell me where she is!"

"Upstairs," Constance said eagerly. "You have it? I want to see it."

"Not until I have what I want," Christine returned coolly.

The Ehlers were silent for a moment, and Erik caught the quick look they gave each other, conveying a silent message. Before he could move, Constance threw the lantern toward Christine, throwing the room into darkness briefly, then light blazed as the kerosene splashed out and caught fire. As Erik watched in horror, Christine aimed the gun at Gordon just as he rushed toward the stairs, and Constance launched herself onto Christine, knocking her down. The sound of gunfire rent the air, followed by the sound of boots charging up the stairs.

Erik gripped each side of the banister just as Gordon rushed forward, then planted both boots directly onto his chest and kicked him back down. He heard a sickening crack as Gordon's neck snapped in the fall back down the stairs. Erik had killed him after all. He didn't have time to worry about it now.

"Christine! Christine?" he shouted, stumbling over Gordon's body, as he rushed forward to pull Constance off of her. His features froze in horror at the sight of the enormous amount of blood covering Christine's stomach. "You foolish woman, wake up! Wake up damn you!"

Visions of the last woman he'd held this way flashed through his mind: Meg, the blood, the overwhelming feeling of helplessness. And God, but he loved Christine more. He could not lose her, especially not like this. Flames danced near on the floor, not spreading because there was nothing to burn except dust, and they illuminated her face and body, making him see perfectly the dark red stain on her dress. "Christine, don't leave me," he whispered, lifting her up and laying her across his lap. "Stay with me. Please, stay with me."

Erik looked up, unable to focus as a figure came down the stairs. He had to get Christine to a doctor, and if she lived, he would throttle her himself for getting in danger.

"Erik? Is she alright?"

It was Francois, and for a moment he did nothing more than stare, unable to concentrate on anything more than the pain in his heart. Francois was carrying Patrice in his arms, apparently unconscious, with her hands wrapped in his jacket.

"She's been shot," Erik mumbled, glancing down to Christine.

"Does she have a pulse?"

"A pulse?" Erik asked blankly.

Francois hurried down the steps, holding Patrice tightly as he knelt by Christine. With one hand he reached out and lay his fingers against Christine's neck. "Her pulse is strong. We need to get her to a doctor though. She'll lose a lot of blood," he said, then grimaced as he looked down, "especially with a wound in the stomach. We shouldn't move her. I'll take care of the Ehlers. You go get a doctor."

Erik cupped her chin possessively, kissing her still warm lips. "Christine, can you hear me, love? Help is coming. Don't leave me. Don't..."

He pressed another kiss to her lips, surprise flooding him as her mouth opened and she kissed him back.

"Christine?"

"Erik, I'm sorry," she groaned, her eyes still closed. "I thought I was doing what was right. I'm so sorry."

He gasped, painfully relieved, and held her close. "Don't die. Please don't die. I'm going to get a doctor and you'll be fine. Alright? Just hold on for me, love."

"Why would I die?" Christine wondered, slowly opening her eyes. Her head ached fiercely, and Erik's face was blurred before her for several moments. "What's wrong? Did I get them?"

"Get them?" Erik asked incredulously. "You shot yourself, dammit!"

"I _what_?"

"You shot yourself," he repeated. Christine's eyes were finally able to focus and she saw that Erik's cheeks were suspiciously damp, and anger was etched across his features. "Does it hurt?" He asked her.

"Did I shoot myself in the head?" she asked anxiously. "Because I've a splitting headache."

Erik felt immediately, but he felt nothing but soft hair and bits of leaves. "There's nothing back there. It's here," he said, touching her stomach. "You've lost a lot of blood."

Panicked, Christine looked down, touching the blood. "Well it isn't mine," she said, patting herself in reassurance. "It must be hers."

"It's not?"

Gingerly she tried to sit up, only to discover her balance was extremely off. Leaning on Erik for support, she finally managed. "No. I'm fine, my head is just aching. I think I hit it on the floor when she tackled me."

"Good grief, you scared ten lives off of me," Erik breathed, grabbing her around the shoulders and hauling her into his arms. Christine squeaked slightly in protest as he kissed her in sheer relief, desperate to be as close to her as possible. "Merde, what were you thinking, coming in here like that? I specifically stated in my note that you were to trust me."

"I'm sorry," Christine whispered, coming fully to her senses.

A groan of pain made them all turn, and Erik looked up to see Constance stirring.

"You evil witch," Francois growled, laying his wife down.

Moving over to her, Francois turned Constance onto her side, feeling a weak pulse beneath her skin. Blood poured from a wound in her shoulder, and she whimpered in pain as he pressed his hand down on it – hard.

"She'll live, unfortunately," he said gravely.

"What about Patrice?" Erik asked softly.

"Her hand is infected, but they didn't do anything else to her. She fell asleep as soon as I took her in my arms." Francois tied Constance up with a length of rope he'd removed from Patrice's feet. Moving her unconscious body close to Gordon's, Francois looked back to Erik and Christine. "Will you take Patrice back to the hotel and send the police out here for these two? I shall wait with them."

"You're not going to..."

"Kill her?" Francois finished, able to smile for the first time in days. "I will somehow refrain."

"I'll go to the police," Christine offered, taking Erik's hand and mutually rising with him. "I know how much you would love doing that yourself, of course."

"Fine," Erik muttered, not in the mood to joke. "Then you're going straight back to the hotel, and I will tie you to a chair if need be."

"I'm sorry, but I thought it rather foolish for you to come here with a fake diamond," Christine said, her tone snappish.

"And you had the real one?" Erik snorted in disbelief.

Raising her eyebrows in the way that Bernadette did when she was superciliously smug about something, Christine dug into a reticule that was tied about her wrist, and produced the sparkling gem, except only half of it came out. Baffled, she dug again, producing two smaller fragments, then another large segment.

"What in the world?"

Erik took the diamond, now mostly in pieces from her. "The bullet must have struck the diamond, then hit Constance."

"Impossible. That would mean..."

"It would mean you came far closer to injuring yourself than I thought," Erik replied grimly. "You are a very lucky, and foolish woman."

"Yes," Christine agreed, fear and embarrassment swirling through her as she realized how close she could have come to dying. "But I heard them saying they were going to kill Patrice because of what you did to Gordon earlier, and I didn't see you anywhere."

"That was kind of the point, Christine."

"Well I didn't think of that. I was thinking of Patrice!"

"_Thank _you, Christine, for being so brave," Francois said, stepping around Erik and surprising her with a lengthy embrace. "My wife and I are both indebted to you."

"Mmm..."

Francois let Christine go immediately at the small moan from his wife. "Patrice?"

"Francois? It hurts," she whimpered. "It hurts...make it stop..."

"Sweetheart, I'm here," he murmured, kneeling beside her. "Erik is going to take you to a doctor."

Erik leaned down and brushed a hand over Patrice's forehead. "She's feverish."

"Take her," Francois said, his voice hoarse. "Before I change my mind and do it myself."

# - # - # - # - # - # - #

They hadn't quite made it to the road when a half dozen riders came thundering toward them, on their heels two carriages with outriders dressed in police uniforms. Erik's expression tightened, and he glanced down at Christine accusingly. "Did you do this?" he demanded.

"No! I told Juliette to wait until morning," she denied immediately.

"Obviously she did not."

Erik shifted Patrice in his arms, half relieved and more than furious. He knew the police would have to become involved at some point, but it had been his greatest hope that he would be left out of matters. Old instincts kicking him senseless, he nearly laid his burden on the muddy earth and took shelter into the night, but the horses were already coming to a halt before him. At least in the darkness they might not be able to distinguish his rather unusual features.

"Hold there!" one of them commanded. "Identify yourself!"

"Erik Jeunet. The Paumards are friends of mine," he replied, stepping back as a group of policemen approached, holding out lanterns that did little to illuminate the night.

"Christine, thank God!" Juliette screeched, barreling out of one of the carriages. "I cannot believe you took off like that! Are you mad? You could have been killed!"

"Indeed, Madame Dvorak," Erik said tersely.

Two men stepped forward, one a finely dressed gentleman, the other obviously a superior officer in the New York City Police Department. The officer introduced himself as Chief Bonner, and stared Erik down for several moments before glancing to the warehouse. "What the devil has been going on here tonight?"

"This is Patrice Paumard," Erik replied, barely keeping a civil tone. "Her husband reported her as kidnapped a week ago, by the two murders he is holding inside of there. Your police department did not do a thorough enough job investigating the matter, so we took care of it ourselves"

Chief Bonner looked clearly insulted, and Juliette linked her arm through his, then the other gentleman's. "Now Erik here is very grateful for the hard work that your department does, aren't you, Erik? He's obviously had a very rough night." Without waiting for a response, her voice turned sultry as she directed her next comment to the mayor. "Dear Mr. Ely, I'm awfully tired of all this drama. Now that we know that the criminals have been captured, what do you say we go to your home for a nightcap?"

Nonplussed, the mayor of New York cleared his throat. "Sounds like a fine idea. Chief, see that these people have everything they need, and make sure you release them at a decent hour after you're through with questioning. And...it would be best if the papers did not hear of this, understand?"

"Perfectly," Chief Bonner said, his tone clipped. "Men, it looks as if you have two criminals to take back to the station. Get to it."

"Only one," Erik corrected. "The man, Gordon Ehler, is dead. He broke his neck in a fall down the stairs. His sister is wounded; she'll need to be taken to a hospital."

Several of the policemen charged past him into the building, and Erik commandeered one of the carriages, laying Patrice gently on the seat. As he expected, Francois came out immediately once the police had taken possession of the Ehlers and returned to his wife's side.

"I need a doctor, now!" he shouted, not to anyone in particular.

"Jennings, get this girl to St. Vincent's hospital," Mr. Ely ordered, thumping the back of the carriage. With a chirp to the horses, Francois and Patrice were off, safe at last.

"Now about that diamond..." Chief Bonner began. At the mention of the diamond, a large man, previously unnoticed, stepped forward out of the shadows.

"Inspector Martin!" Christine gasped, surprised to see him in New York as well. "What are you doing here?"

"The diamond was originally stolen from my wife's uncle." Martin informed her. "He was an archaeologist and had discovered the stone on a dig in India. The Ehlers murdered him for it, and I've been on their trail ever since."

"So the diamond is actually yours then. Well, it's now diamonds, to be more precise," Christine said apologetically, handing over her reticule. "I'm very sorry. A bullet seems to have grazed the end of it."

"Hmm." Chief Bonner frowned, glancing suspiciously at Erik and Christine. "A bullet, you say?"

"Yes. I believe you'll find it inside of Constance Ehler's shoulder."

Erik and Christine endured another hour of questions from the Chief, and although wholly unsatisfied, he ultimately released them. Just before they climbed into the carriage, the other officers brought out Constance, who was screaming like a banshee, along with Gordon's body, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle.

"I'll get out someday, and I'll find you," Constance promised, glaring at Christine.

"I look forward to seeing you fail again," Christine returned, barely resisting the urge to stick her foot out and trip her as the officers hustled her past them. "Take care of yourself in prison, Miss Ehler. I've heard it does terrible things for a woman's skin."


	61. A Wedding and A Memory of It

Okay I'm going to be in the middle of moving next week so I'm going to try and have this uploaded by doubling up the last chapters. There are six left. My internet may be down next week so I don't know if I'll have access to my story or not (grrr). Anyway, enjoy these 2 chapter

* * *

One week later...

"Easy, sweetheart," Francois murmured, guiding Patrice into a chair. "Can I get you anything?"

"When are the girls going to get here?" she asked, looking around anxiously. "I wish you would have let them stay with us last night."

"Bernadette is bringing them," he promised, adjusting the umbrella until it hid her face from the sun. "I didn't want them to tire you on your first day out of the hospital."

He lifted her bandaged hand, contrite as she winced. Patrice had remained amazingly stoic until the night before when the children had arrived, and all at once she'd broken down, trying not to show how terrified she had been during her ordeal, but failing.

"I wish I could do something to help with the wedding," she said wistfully. "Are you sure they don't need me?"

"Just rest, Patrice. I have to find Erik, but I promise I'll make sure you have the opportunity to see the bride before Erik."

Satisfied, she gave a wan smile, and he kissed her brow before leaving her in the small hotel courtyard. He found Erik pacing impatiently inside his room, only half dressed but seemingly too distracted to finish.

"Is she here yet?"

"Christine? The reverend has her sequestered in a room downstairs, giving her a marriage talk."

Erik's eyes widened. "A marriage talk? What the hell is that?"

Francois gave his friend a half grin. "Not to worry, he'll be giving you one as well."

Jerking his waistcoat on, then fumbling with his cravat, he was surprised when Francois turned him by the shoulder, tying it himself. "My hands aren't steady," Erik mumbled. "Who knew that getting married could be so terrifying? Do you remember your own wedding?"

"How could I forget? Patrice wanted to get married once we arrived in America. Instead we got married in La Rochelle, and she stayed angry at me the entire night before we boarded the ship, then I slept on the floor. I suppose you could say we didn't have a honeymoon until a year after we arrived here. We took a trip up to Washington."

"And how did that go?" Erik asked warily, not liking the idea of spending his wedding night on the floor.

"She busted my lip because I'd bought her a proper wedding ring and she thought I had stolen it," Francois replied, then laughed at Erik's horrified expression. "Don't worry. I'm sure you'll get through the night without bruises. Christine doesn't seem the swing first and ask questions later kind of girl."

Thinking of Christine wielding a gun and taking on the Ehlers, Erik chuckled. "I hope you're right, Francois. I hope you're right."

Erik wasn't sure how Juliette had accomplished it, but he was eternally grateful that she had convinced Bernadette to travel to New York with the Paumard girls for their wedding. He was also amazed at the speed with which Juliette and Bernadette had located a minister willing to marry them on such short notice. Reverend Brown was the minister at the prominent Dutch Reformed Church that the mayor attended in downtown Manhattan, and he had agreed to marry them in the courtyard behind the hotel, a small shady garden area bedecked fittingly with roses.

At Erik's request, the manager of the hotel had sent his gardener out to pick the most beautiful twelve and deliver them to his bride. It was rushed, but to Erik it felt as if it took a lifetime for Francois to knock on the door of his suite and announce that it was time. Erik had entrusted his friend to procure a wedding band for himself, and had decided to take Christine wherever she wished to go to buy her own. He had a feeling, however, that she would think the simple gold band that she wore now held far more meaning than any jewel on earth.

The manager had professed that at least six weddings were held at his hotel per year, and seeing the private beauty of the garden, Erik could see why. A fountain was set in the far right corner, and next to it was a small gazebo. The only thing missing was a musician, but he was not about to complain. They had the rest of their lives to make music together.

"Mr. Jeunet?"

Erik turned to find a slim balding minister, dressed in a heavy black robe. "Sir?"

"I'd just like to know a couple of things before I join you in holy matrimony," the minister responded, his eyes widening slightly at the marred complexion of his groom. "Is this your first time to be married?"

"Yes," Erik replied impatiently.

"Have you known each other long, or is this hasty decision to be married..."

"I've been wanting to marry that woman for longer than I care to think about," Erik said brusquely. "I assure you there was nothing hasty about my decision to marry Miss Daae. We've known each other for several years. If at all possible, I'd like this ceremony completed within the next thirty minutes."

"Oh dear," the man fretted. "I haven't had a chance to talk to you about your salvation. Mr. Jeunet, I beg you..."

Fearing the man might balk at marrying him if he were not properly dressed down, Erik listened to approximately five minutes of the gospel according to Reverend Brown, then discreetly cleared his throat to stop him when the Reverend paused to take a breath.

"Reverend Brown, _please_, may we begin the service now? I promise you, that I will make this worth your while," Erik begged the man. Erik couldn't remember ever begging anyone for anything before this. But then, he had never wanted anything as much as he wanted to marry Christine.

"Oh, yes, of course. Let's summon your bride then." Reverend Brown said.

"Then we may proceed," Erik said, gesturing towards the front of the aisle of chairs.

"Are you nervous, my dear?" Bernadette asked, adjusting her veil.

"Excited," Christine replied in a whisper. "Terrified. Should I feel that way?"

"Oh yes," Juliette chuckled from behind her. "Every bride does. Well, except me. I knew there wouldn't be a wedding night with my Alberto. If I were you, _that_ would be the part I worried about."

"Thank you," Christine said dryly, turning carefully around. "I can't believe how lovely this dress is. It's a little bit snug, but if I hold in my breath it won't matter."

"You won't be wearing it long anyway," Bernadette muttered. "Not if Erik can help it."

Christine's face turned red, and she was grateful for the white lace hiding her expression. Both Bernadette and Juliette had taken upon themselves at separate points today to school her more thoroughly on what would happen on the wedding night. As if she couldn't have embarrassed her more, Juliette had given a very graphic example with a napkin holder and a knife. And whatever an orgasm was, Christine was fairly certain it wasn't going to happen to her.

"Is he out there?" Christine whispered. "Is it time yet?"

Bernadette drew aside the curtain and looked down into the courtyard, seeing Erik glancing at his pocket watch with Francois standing behind him. Patrice was seated in the front row holding Elise's hand, and poor Josephine was sitting alone with their other two daughters, one of which was crying loudly. "Yes, I would say that it's time," she murmured, and turned back for one last embrace with Christine. "Erik loves you, my dear. This is what he's wanted for so long. And you, oh Christine. I can't tell you how proud I am of you both. You're going to have a great marriage. Just remember his past, and don't let him push you away. He does that sometimes. Be firm with him."

"Yes, Madame," Christine promised, feeling her heart swell in love.

"And don't let him boss you around either," she added, waggling her finger in Christine's face. "The man you're marrying is a stubborn one."

"I won't."

Bernadette's expression tightened, then ultimately crumbled. "T-take care of h-him. He...I...oh, goodness." She wiped her eyes, and gratefully took a handkerchief from Juliette. "He's my dearest friend. So much more than th-that. Take care of my Erik for me."

Christine hugged Bernadette. "We're not going anywhere. I had hoped Erik and I could stay - with you."

"I would like that," Bernadette replied, relief apparent in her expression.

Juliette heaved herself out of the chair. "And I would love it if you visited me often, because I won't be coming back to the state of Georgia unless the Arctic begins to encroach upon it."

Christine laughed, and turned to hug her friend. "I will miss you, Juliette. I hope you'll consider coming to visit in the winter, or at least to New York often."

"Monsieur Jeunet is a lucky man," Juliette said, trying her best not to cry and knowing she would fail. Christine had been there for her since Alberto died, and unless she wished to find Carlos again and have the man drive her insane with his need for perfection, she would probably buy a house in New York and live there at least part of the time. She withdrew slightly and gave Christine a mischievous smile. "I saw the prim and proper nightgown you packed. I took it out."

"And replaced it with what?" Christine asked nervously.

"Why, nothing," Juliette replied, her eyes twinkling. "Nothing at all."

It was so far beyond his most perfect fantasy that Erik could hardly believe it as Christine walked up the aisle. The dress was simple, tightly fitted, with a bustle making her hips seem rounder, and more enticing. The thick bouquet of roses set against her gown, blood red splashed over white, was a stunning contrast. He was not fond of the hat and veil, but she was a breathtaking sight. Her father would have been proud, and Erik wondered briefly if Gustave Daae would have liked her choice. It was something he'd wanted to know since the days in the opera, and he'd always imagined the answer as no. Had he redeemed himself enough for her? Would he ever? Without questioning why, he knew that he no longer cared. Christine stopped before him, automatically seeking his hand, each of them shaking slightly.

"Miss Daae, may I say that you make a beautiful bride?" Reverend Brown said, beaming at her.

"Thank you," she managed to reply, never taking her eyes off of Erik. Her groom somehow seemed taller and broader, dressed in a black suit with a dove gray silk cravat and snowy white shirt.

The Reverend talked about the sanctity of marriage, and continued the service as bride and groom silently held hands, lost in every memory from their first lesson as teacher and student until now, discarding that terrible year as nothing more than a tragedy that was best forgotten. Their lives would be forever intertwined, a melding of an odd ensemble of family and friend, love and lover.

Dutifully they repeated the words which bound them, voices unsteady, hushed whispers that were filled with emotion. From behind her Patrice held out a ring that Christine had never seen before, and she placed it on the finger of her husband, gazing up at him with awe.

"Where is the bride's ring?" Reverend Brown asked, sounding panicked.

"I'm already wearing mine," Christine murmured.

The preacher made a sound of confusion, but continued with the ceremony. "As an ordained minister of God, and by the power vested in me by the great state of New York, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride, Mr. Jeunet."

"Finally," Erik whispered, reverently lifting Christine's veil and kissing her tenderly.

Christine laughed as Juliette gave out a whoop of delight, and her husband dipped her backward for another searing kiss. "Finally," she agreed, lost in a sea of blazing golden eyes, and shivering at the promise that they held.

"You are mine," he said fiercely, his broad hands holding her steady.

"Always," Christine replied warmly, linking her arms around his neck. "I will always be yours."

* * *

_Savannah - 1930_

"What are you hooligans still doing up?"

Three guilty faced people glanced up at Erik as he entered the room, and promptly a book of some sort was thrust beneath his daughter's legs. "Papa! You startled us!"

"Your mother's having trouble sleeping. She sent me down for a snack," Erik grumbled, shuffling painfully into the room. "Why aren't you kids in bed? It's after midnight for crying out loud!"

"We're reading," Cassandra blurted out. "Well rather, Aunt Emmaline is reading to us."

"Oh." Erik sank down into the chair across from his grandson, and patted his leg. "I can't imagine these girls found something to read that interests you. Aren't you a little old for fairy tales?"

Gregory's face turned red, and he glanced to his aunt for help.

"I thought you were getting Mama a snack," Emmaline said pointedly.

"Well I walked all the way down the stairs, so now I'm tired. Your mother knows it'll take me half the night to get back to her." He regarded Emmaline suspiciously. "What are you reading to them anyway? It isn't one of those novels of your Aunt Josephine's is it?"

"No," Emmaline chuckled, thinking of her aunt's bawdy fictitious tales of jewel thieves and opera singers. She had no idea how Aunt Josephine managed it, but at age sixty – six she was still cranking out tales of murder and deceit. "We're actually reading a love story."

"A love story, eh?" Erik replied warily. "Who is the author, or do I want to know?"

Baldly his daughter held up the journal, and his two grandchildren gasped loudly, looking for the nearest exits. "Why, you are, Papa. You and Mama."

Erik scowled and held out a hand for the book. Emmaline had always been too nosy for her own good. Ever since that trip to Paris with Josephine all those years ago, she'd been enthralled with uncovering every last one of her parents' secrets. It had begun with these blasted journals. After all this time he no longer had the strength to care, but there were certain parts of his past that would remain buried – at least to his young, impressionable grandchildren. "Hand it over, Emmaline," he commanded.

"Aw, Papa." Emmaline winked at Cassandra as she obeyed, keeping one finger indexed between the pages. "Don't lose my place. We were just getting to the good part - your wedding night..."

Her father gave her a reproachful look, taking the journal and turning it to the part to which she referred. His face heated, reading the words he'd never forgotten. Thankfully, the journals which mentioned the opera house the most had been destroyed long ago, so all of Emmaline's assumptions were just that. But he could not see letting her relay this very personal moment with Christine, no matter how many times she had read it herself. His daughter's mouth fell open as he tore the pages from the book, stuffed them into his pocket, then tossed it onto the table in front of her. "There. That ought to do it! Now when you children are finished, I want those put back where they belong, and you get into bed. If I have to wake your fathers up, there's going to be Hell to pay!"

With a snort of laughter he left the room, stopping by the kitchen for a plate of cookies and some milk. By the time he made it upstairs, the old wound in his leg ached, and he was ready to lie down. Christine was sitting in bed reading while she waited for him.

"Oh, Erik. You didn't have to bring all this!" she laughed, getting out of bed with a spryness that he envied. She took the glass from his weak, trembling hand and set the cookies on the bed. "Sit down before you hurt yourself. I knew I should have gotten it myself!"

He coughed, feeling an ache in his lungs that had been there for at least two years. "Well, it's here now," he replied dismissively. "Why don't you read to me awhile, and I'll eat."

She flashed the cover of the book. "But you hate Wharton."

Erik produced the torn pages from his journal, and gave her a sly smile. "I had something else in mind," he said, waggling his brows suggestively. "We might be too old for it now, but it never hurts me to remember those times."

Christine's eyes skimmed the pages, and she glanced back at her husband as he propped up on the bed, chewing on a cookie. "You know this will not help either one of us sleep, don't you?"

"I don't need to sleep," he drawled softly. "I've got more important things to be doing with my life right now. Like listening to your beautiful voice..."

"Faded, raspy voice," Christine muttered beneath her breath, but turned the light on near her side of the bed so that she could read the words. "Oh. You were quite sure of yourself that night, weren't you?"

"I was frightened out of my mind. Francois said brides were an unpleasant sort to deal with."

"Did he?"

"Hmmm," Erik replied non-committally through a mouthful of cookie.

"It says here that you kissed my rose petal soft lips, and touched the tip of my breast."

Erik choked on his milk. "Merde, it's a good thing I took that away from the grandchildren."

"The grandchildren!" Christine gasped, horrified. "You were letting them read this? Erik, I don't want my grandchildren, or children, reading that my nipples were the color of an overripe melon. _Were_ being the key word there! They look more like shriveled apples now! And melon? The only melon I know of is a watermelon, and it's green, darling. I hope you weren't saying my nipples were green."

"Nonsense. You've always had magnificent breasts," Erik insisted. "Keep reading. You can skip the graphic details if you _really _want to."

"And listen to you complain?" she asked, chuckling.

Christine cleared her throat, met her husband's eye with a bold smile, and began to read.

_"Christine knelt between my legs, and took me into her mouth..."_

"Ahem!" Erik interrupted, looking amused. "I don't recall that happening on our wedding night, dear."

"Oh?" Christine's eyes twinkled. "I was certain that it did. Perhaps my eyes are failing me."

Erik brushed cookie crumbs from his striped night shirt, and gave his wife a roving glance. "I believe the first for that particular event was our six month anniversary."

"Well that's only because I didn't know about it," Christine replied loftily.

"And I have yet to know where you got the idea," Erik replied dryly. "Though you'll never hear me utter an unkind or unwise word about it."

Christine settled back against the pillows beside him, opening her mouth for a bite of cookie that he fed her. Ah yes, she did remember that night, and it was Patrice who'd enlightened her to how a man loved to be pleasured that way. Over the years Madame Paumard had remained her dearest friend, and Francois was still Erik's as well, though his health had made it difficult for him to get around the last few years. Patrice's advice, combined with Erik's utter willingness to allow his wife whatever she desired, had culminated in a very interesting night, indeed.

"You were only too willing to reciprocate, my love," she murmured. "Now if you'll pardon me, I'd like to finish this so we can go to sleep."

"Read on, my dear sweet wife," Erik chuckled. "I can hardly wait."

* * *

_New York, 1878_

"Oh, Erik, that was a beautiful ceremony," Bernadette said, gliding up to him at the train station with Aurélie hanging off her arm.

"It would not have been complete without you," Erik murmured, embracing her with equal affection. "You never told me how Juliette convinced you to make the trip, and in such a short amount of time."

Bernadette brushed imaginary lint from his jacket. "Bah. She told me about your foolish plan, and about Patrice. That was all that I needed to hear."

"You were afraid to travel, weren't you?"

"Terrified," she admitted. "But I was more afraid of something happening to you."

Erik glanced up as Patrice walked carefully down the boardwalk, still holding tightly to Elise. "Well I'm glad it's over," he said softly. "It could have been so much worse."

Bernadette sniffed suspiciously. "When are you and Christine coming home?"

"A few days. Are you sure you want to leave so soon? You've only been here four days. I know Juliette would love to take you shopping."

"No, no. This is your time with Christine. Besides, Patrice is eager to be home, and I know she'll need help with the girls." Aurélie leaned toward her mother with outstretched hands, and Patrice walked over to bestow a kiss on her daughter's head. "I do hope you and Francois will stay at the house with us a few days."

Patrice's eyes flickered slightly. "Actually Madame Giry, I very much want to see my own house. But you are more than welcome to stay with us until Erik and Christine come back to Savannah."

"I'd love that," Bernadette said, stepping close so Patrice could nuzzle her baby's plump cheek. With her right hand injured, the tips of two of her fingers missing, and weak from lack of food or water, Patrice could not support the weight. "Now where are Josephine and Christine? You may have to pry those two apart. That girl has been so despondent since Christine left for New York. If I didn't know better, I think she took after you, Erik."

He smiled slightly. "We Jeunets must have a penchant for beautiful Swedish sopranos. Ah, here they are," he said, his breath catching at the sight of Christine, still in her wedding dress. Juliette strolled along, her arm linked through Josephine's, and a sunny smile on her face. The mayor had shown up the day after the capture of the thieves with the museum director, wearily demanding that the diamond be returned to them, only to be told that it had been turned over to the Inspector from Scotland Yard.

Which reminded Erik...

"Josephine," he called out, "come over here a moment, please?"

The girl glanced to Christine first, who nodded encouragingly, then to Erik. "Why?"

Erik forced himself to smile, afraid of being rejected by her in front of everyone. "I have a present I wish to give you before you leave."

She swallowed, but stepped forward, her golden eyes shifting uncomfortably between the ground and his chin. "Yes?"

Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out a long velvet case. "This is a present from your Aunt Christine and me," he said quietly. "We both wanted you to have it."

Josephine's eyes lit up, as she opened the box with a gasp. "The diamond! Aunt Bernadette look!"

Erik chuckled as his cousin lifted it out with a trembling hand, holding the pendant style necklace by a long silver chain. Christine had picked the setting, centering the piece of the small teardrop shaped blue diamond that had shattered away from the rest of the now infamous gem. The jeweler had completed its beauty by encrusting it with an equal fortune worth of smaller white diamonds.

"It's beautiful, my dear," Bernadette murmured, her eyes sparkling to match those of the diamonds. "Just as you are."

"Thank you Christine!" Josephine shouted, turning to throw her arms around Christine's waist.

Christine held her tight, meeting Erik's eyes for a moment and seeing relief there. "You're so welcome, Josephine. But it was your Cousin Erik's idea," she whispered for the girl's ears only. "He wanted you to have a piece of it, because he knew how much you wanted to keep it. You should thank him."

Josephine twisted her head back, looking at Erik. He looked sort of sad, and happy all at once, but what most surprised the girl was that her cousin's fear was palpable. Aunt Bernadette had told her so many stories about Erik that it was hard to imagine him as the monster that Uncle Marcel claimed. He looked big and strong, and although his size and his strange, scarred face were frightening, Aunt Bernadette told her God made him that way so he could protect her.

With Christine pushing her forward, Josephine held quite still as one long arm wrapped around her shoulder and embraced her briefly.

"No need to thank me, little sprite," Erik said, his eyes filling with embarrassment. "That's a bribe to keep you from wanting more goats."

Josephine cast an uncertain smile up at him. "That's okay. While you were gone, Deidre had two babies."

As Erik's mouth dropped open, she scrambled away from him back into Christine's arms. With a dry chuckle, he patted her head once. "I cannot wait to meet them, Josephine."

Erik helped Francois carry the luggage the rest of the way to the train, then watched all of them board.

Christine placed her arm through Erik's, contentment sliding through her, knowing that her wedding night was approaching. As if knowing her thoughts, Erik leaned towards her slightly.

"I can hardly wait to have you alone," her new husband whispered against her ear. "You are a most beautiful bride, Christine."

Christine continued waving at Bernadette and Josephine, and the Paumards and their children as the train pulled from the station. Erik's words made her shiver, and the hand he placed at her waist gripped her tightly.

"Well, we are alone now," Christine replied, turning her face up for a kiss.

Erik stared into her eyes a moment, then without granting her request, grabbed her by the hand and yanked her toward the carriage. Christine laughed as he all but threw her inside, and climbed into the seat behind her. "We won't be alone until we get back to the hotel. Not really, truly alone."

Nervousness fluttered through her, and she gave a practiced smile. The look of hunger in his expression was one thing, but the heat of his hand, and the almost absent way that he stroked her palm with a fingertip was driving her mad. As she met his eyes though, she could see it was quite intentional.

"You aren't afraid, are you?" Erik asked softly.

"Not...afraid..."

"You look as if you're ready to throw yourself from the carriage," he observed. "What happened to the brave young woman who was in my arms just a few nights ago?"

"She was being kissed senselessly," Christine murmured.

Erik's eyes darkened, and he tipped her face up, searing her with an open mouthed kiss. His tongue slid against hers, pulling her as close as he dared. He wanted her with an intensity that would have worried him in the past, but no longer. He was finally with Christine in the way he'd always wanted to be. Christine Daae...no longer. She was Christine Jeunet now. The papers that she'd signed, the sweet vows she'd spoken while gazing into his eyes, and the expression of love and devotion, all combined to make him know a peace he'd never felt before. Christine gripped her bouquet of roses as she placed an arm around his neck, drawing him closer, but Erik realized that he could not compromise her in a carriage. The windows were open, but it was dark outside and the streets were quiet. Families were having supper together, but all he wanted right now was his bride, naked and willing beneath him. "You aren't hungry are you?" he asked suddenly, looking worried.

"No."

"Thank goodness."

"Hmm?" she asked dazedly.

"I said thank goodness. We're here, Christine," Erik said, pushing open the door to the carriage. "Your bridal suite awaits."

* * *

OK so I'm a bit wicked, leaving a cliffhanger here, but just think...2 chapters on Saturday! And nuthin' but the luvin'! So all you squeamish people (and youngsters) can skim happily through...


	62. Completeness

Sex below.

* * *

He'd gotten them only one room, hoping she would not ask for another. She didn't, though her eyes grew very wide as the door shut behind him, concealing them in the nearly darkened room. Erik found the lampshade and lit the lamp, staring at his new bride. Afraid to touch her suddenly, with his heart doing _pirouettes_ and another part of him wanting to practice _pointe_ work, he crossed the room and poured them a glass of champagne.

"We didn't have a reception," Erik murmured, offering Christine a flute of sparkling, golden liquid. "I know every woman must dream of the perfect wedding."

"The perfect groom," Christine corrected, curling a hand around the cold glass. "I've never cared for material things."

"No," Erik agreed softly. She never had, not until the Vicomte had come along. Even then it had not been so much as what he could offer in presents and pretty gifts, but in safety and security. While other girls complained of not making enough money in the chorus to dress in fine clothes, his little student had been consumed with music. Perhaps those fleeting moments he'd shared with her would have fastened their bond, if only he had given her more than a lie, then her head never would have been turned. He found great irony that they had both been seeking the same things – love and acceptance – but he'd been too afraid to ask her to do either.

"To us," she whispered, lifting her champagne. "May we have a long and happy marriage."

Erik closed his eyes and saluted her, then took a drink. "To my wife. May you always be content," he added softly.

Christine set her glass down, watching him for a long moment. Apprehension was written across his face, and quite suddenly she giggled, because she was the only one with a real reason to be nervous. Her Angel continued to surprise her, though his reaction to her laughter was expected. His eyes snapped open, and he looked extremely displeased.

"What is it?"

She shook her head, moving toward him. "I was wondering if you knew how to dance," she fibbed, wanting to have his arms around her again. It was the only time she wasn't thinking, and considering their history, that was a good thing. "The groom is supposed to be the first man to dance with the bride."

"Let us be clear on something, Christine." Erik caught her hand and pulled her close. "I will be the _only_ man who gets to dance with you. _Ever._"

"So you _can_ dance?"

"I'm not interested in dancing at the moment," he said, lowering his dark head to her own.

The kiss started slowly, gently, hesitantly. Like their first kiss, it was an awakening for them both, a meeting of hearts, of some powerful connection neither had forgotten, nor could they deny. Erik slid his hands to her hips, pulled her close and fit her sweet curves against his solid length. Like a drunken, drowning man, he was dying a beautiful death under her spell. His lips teased hers, whispered kisses that stole her breath. He loved her with his hands, squeezing her waist, caressing her back through her clothing, daring to trail lower to the swell of her backside.

Christine looped her arms around his neck, and leaned into him. She opened her mouth and touched her tongue against Erik's, a hot flame sparking some secret part of her body no one had ever lit before.

"I want you, Christine," Erik murmured, his voice husky. "I do...How I do want you."

"I'm all yours," she whispered, staring up into his eyes.

She raised trembling fingers to her neck, and slid the first three buttons free. Turning, she closed her eyes as he removed the pins from her hair, pushed it aside, then kissed the most tender spot just below the nape.

The dress fell away before he realized the buttons were somehow free, and she shrugged it down to her hips, then to her feet. In another moment the corset was gone, and he kissed her shoulder where it had dug into the blade. Christine glanced shyly over her shoulder at him, and he captured her lips briefly from behind before turning her once more in his arms. A white linen chemise covered those delicate parts he desperately wanted to explore, and he tugged at the ribbon that held it tightly drawn against her skin.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered.

In response, she wound her arms around his neck and pulled him down for another kiss, hiding her nervousness by boldly arching her body into his searching hands. He lifted the hem of her chemise over her head and removed it, his eyes ravenous as her blushing body was bared to his gaze. Her confidence faltering, Christine crossed her arms over her breasts.

"No," he said hoarsely. Erik pulled her hands down, his gaze drawn more to the angry looking wound on her shoulder than to her breasts, though they earned quite a bit of appraisal on their own. It frightened and infuriated him to think of someone ever hurting her. The flesh around the wound was still red and tender, and Christine winced as he brushed his knuckle near it. Again she tried to cover herself, but he stopped her. "Don't hide yourself from me. Please."

Unsure of what to do with her hands, she rested them on his side, wondering what_ he_ looked like beneath his clothing. His broad shoulders, his chest, just the thought of his body quickened her heart, but it was the rest of him which remained a mystery. Erik didn't give her a chance to find out. He tilted her face back, and kissed her deeply, sweeping one hand down her back. Erik slipped his hand inside the edge of her bloomers and caressed her derrière. Christine's eyes flew open, and she pulled away in surprise.

"Oh," she breathed.

"Untie them, Christine. Take them off."

Fumbling, she dropped her gaze to the ribbons to her drawers, trying to do as he demanded. She'd barely completed the task before he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed. His eyes never left hers as he laid her on the coverlet. Christine curled her hand around his neck, unprotesting, eager, unafraid. She was not the meek, innocent girl he'd tenderly loved. No, she was a woman now, a passionate woman, and Erik wanted her now with the experience of a man who knew what that passion could turn into.

"Will it hurt much?" Christine asked, more curious than afraid.

"I don't know." His brow knit in concern, and he glanced to her shoulder. "I would never wish to cause you any pain. If you want to wait..."

"No. I don't want to wait." She drew him down, meeting his lips for a moment, before he pulled away. She watched as he shrugged out of his jacket, unabashedly staring as he removed his waistcoat and unbuttoned his shirt. He joined her again before she caught a glimpse of what was hidden beneath the soft fabric, stretching out beside her on the bed.

For a moment he simply looked at her, though not into her eyes. She was everything he'd ever wanted. He no longer felt as if he were a spider, and Christine was no longer his prey. His warm, bold gaze swept down her body, then back up into her mortified face. "You're blushing, Christine."

"Can we turn the light off?" she whispered, suddenly embarrassed, trying not to squirm as his eyes roved over her yet again.

His heart sank a little, and he couldn't help the grunt of dissatisfaction. "You don't want to see me?"

"No!" Christine sprang up, automatically covering herself with a blanket despite his admonishes. "I don't want _you_ to see _me_!" She laughed nervously, pushing her hair from her face. "I'm..."

"Beautiful. You are too beautiful to hide from me." Erik kissed her again, lifting one of her hands and placing it on his bare chest. "Just for tonight, leave the light on. We should remember every moment. I want to kiss every inch of you, and see every part. I want...," he swallowed thickly, meeting her gaze again, "to be inside of you, and I want to see your eyes, your face. I even want you to see mine."

Christine searched his eyes, finding a thread of vulnerability in his gaze. It made her ache, knowing how easily a word could undo him. It had taken such courage to not wear his mask everyday, and she knew it was that much harder right now, in the light with her watching. All at once she too wanted to know what would happen between them, and knew that she did not want to miss a moment of it in darkness. Christine drew a breath, and slid the coverlet away from her body. Erik lowered his head again, this time to press a kiss at her clavicle, his tongue sweeping out to taste her. She gasped as his hand covered her breast, twining her nipple softly between his thumb and forefinger. The soft scrape of his beard against her tender skin created explosions of pleasure deep within her stomach.

Her sweet voice echoed in his mind, then he felt her hands slide through his hair. He tensed for a moment until he realized that she was truly so distracted by his hand at her breast that she likely did not notice what he loathed about himself the most. Erik closed his eyes, loving the sensation. Lesley had never touched his hair, knowing how much he hated it. But Christine didn't know, and at the moment he didn't care. She lowered her hands to his neck, then tangled in the shirt, trying to push it from his shoulders. Obeying her silent, inquisitive demand, Erik removed the shirt, sending it to the floor with her dress. He knelt above her, watching the way her eyes moved over him.

"You're very...broad," Christine whispered, staring at his chest. "I...I've never seen a man's chest before this close. Not a naked chest. Not a naked woman's chest or a naked man's chest."

"I'm eternally grateful for both of those things," Erik chuckled, stealing her senses when he kissed her breast. Again her hands went into his hair, her back arched from the bed as a strangled surprise leapt from her throat.

"Erik!"

"Relax, Christine," Erik murmured. Promptly he lowered his mouth to the sensitive curve beneath her breast, teasing but never quite returning to the spot he coveted most. His wild bride forgot her inhibitions, wanting to feel his mouth on her again. He whispered against her skin, telling her how beautiful she was, and showing her in every way how much he cherished her. Cautiously Erik lowered a hand to the warm contour of her stomach, then lower, and she tensed again at the first touch of his finger to damp heat.

"Wh-what are you doing?"

"What, you don't remember this?" he asked, his voice raw with desire.

"Erik," she gasped, feeling him do it again.

"I would put more than my hand there." He kissed her, caressed that aching spot again until he felt the tension leave her limbs. Her breath came in short, heavy spurts, and she did close her eyes, but arched her hips as well. "I would put my hand, my mouth, my tongue...oh yes. Much, much more..."

His words burned, but it was his touch that did so much more. She moaned as he kissed her, and the weight of his body suddenly shifted. Christine felt too weak to protest as his hand again moved to the tingling area between her thighs. With one casual nudge, he was inside of her, exploring the warm center of femininity. Her eyes closed, and her hips moved in an awkward rhythm, unknowingly pressing against the erect member of his body that wished to seek her depths. Slowly he stroked her, bringing dampness from within, his tongue skating from breast to neck, then down her stomach.

A flush was spread over her body, a heat from within that Erik knew very well. He felt it too, and wanted to send his new bride flying into a climax just this way, with his hand and nothing else, letting her enjoy this intimacy before they took it any further. Her eyes were clenched tight, as if in desperate concentration, and suddenly she clutched his wrist, her eyes flying open.

"Not with...not your hand. More," she begged. "I need more of you, my love."

"You have everything," Erik said against her skin.

Christine tightened her grip on his wrist, her nails sinking into his flesh. "Now is not the time to argue with me, Erik dear."

A smile graced his lips at her frustrated tone, and he kicked his boots off quickly, unfastening his trousers and sliding them off his lean hips. "I had no idea my bride would be so eager for me," he said, his voice ragged. "But not half as eager as I am for you."

He slid back onto the bed with her, the shadows stealing the image of his manhood before she had the courage to look, but soon she felt it. Hot and hard, soft like the softest velvet, sliding against her leg. "Can I...do you want me...?"

"I want you," Erik confirmed gravely.

"No." Christine closed her eyes, flustered. "Should I do anything?"

"Whatever you want, Christine."

Hesitantly she raised a hand to his bare back, lightly touching, exploring the smooth and scarred surface of flesh. Questions arose, but there was no time with his hand in her hair and mouth on her breasts, the tip of his manhood coming closer to that secret, soft place. Raising slightly, he laced her fingers with one of his hands, and reached down to guide himself into her.

"Tonight, and every night after, you are mine," he whispered, and in the next moment they were at last one.

* * *

Juliette had not been nearly graphic enough, was Christine's first thought as Erik breeched her. She had not described the flood of sensation, the aching joy of knowing that they were joined, or the way his eyes lit in absolute pleasure, mere inches above her. The sharp pinch subsided as he settled into her, and with his lips compressed into a grimace, he finally exhaled.

"I don't want to hurt you, Christine," Erik said tenderly. His body ached to withdraw again, to move within her and complete their love. "_My_ Christine. Are you alright?"

Wondrous, she nodded, watching those eyes of his. They were a dark golden storm of emotion: love, desire, disbelief. She wanted to drown in them, to know every thought in his mind, but he kissed her before words formed. He kissed her deeply, thrusting his tongue softly and slowly into her mouth, then moving his hips to that same rhythm. At first it was an awkward, confusing feeling, but stirring nonetheless. Erik's expression and the words he murmured, soft and tender were more touching and breathtaking than anything she'd ever experienced. Juliette had not described this feeling of completeness, of overwhelming love. His hand laced tightly with hers, every sigh and groan with his beautiful voice lingering in her mind. It was empowering, knowing and seeing the effect that this act had on him, and were she not so frightfully nervous she might have done more than cling to him and cry out his name.

"Don't stop," she murmured, lifting her legs when he nudged them upward slightly. He slid deeper within, the feeling of pleasure intensifying. "Oh, Erik. Don't stop. Make love to me. To _me._"

He crushed his lips to hers, a groan ripping from his throat. Her beautiful voice echoed hotly in his ear, arousing, scorching, wordless sounds that burned his heart and freed his inhibition. She loved him, and she whispered it over and over until he was paralyzed with happiness. Rising slightly to look into her adoring eyes, Erik knew that somehow, someway, everything would be perfect. This was his love; _his_ Christine.

His _wife_.

"I love you, Christine," he gasped, gathering her in his arms, still within the warmth of her body. "I've never, _ever_ stopped loving you. I never will stop."

"Erik," she breathed. "I've loved you...always." Until this moment she had not realized how long, but now she knew. "Always."

Eyes stinging, they kissed softly and slowly, desire igniting into a passionate dance of lovers. Erik's hips moved again, then rocked back to meet hers. His gaze bore into hers for countless seconds, lengthening the moment with wandering caresses and searing kisses. He made love to her with all the patience of a man finally offered what he had always wanted, restraining himself from spilling his seed too quickly and focusing first on her pleasure. There was no doubt of her readiness; he could feel and hear and inhale that unexpected heady fragrance, but he wanted her to know pleasure, and he wanted to see her eyes as it happened.

And it happened, but so unlike anything he'd expected. She didn't give a sweet sigh of pleasure, or make wordless sounds against his neck. Christine came with the range and volume that only an opera singer could achieve, as vocally as possible, and that sound alone rasped so acutely on his senses that he followed, pushing into her once more and spasming uncontrollably inside of her, his own golden voice and eyes echoing her every feeling. Erik stayed buried within his living bride, committing to memory that sweet moment of ecstasy.

He didn't want to leave the warmth of her body, but she winced slightly as he collapsed on her, and suddenly he remembered the wound low on her neck. "I'm sorry, love," he whispered, summoning the strength to roll away, panting for breath. "Are you hurt?"

"No," Christine breathed, turning onto her side to look at him. Erik looked rather as dazed as she felt, and she grew warmer as she glanced down and saw the part of him that had been inside of her, still proudly erect in the dim light. Almost immediately his eyes flew to hers, and she swore that he blushed.

"Here," he said awkwardly, drawing a blanket over them both. "You aren't hurt?"

"No, Erik."

Relieved, he mirrored her position, placing an arm around her waist and drawing her close. For long moments they merely stared at one another, lost in thought.

_"Well thank goodness that's over!"_

Both their eyes widened in horror at the annoyed female voice that came through the wall.

_"Calm down, honey. That's the newlywed suite,"_ a man replied.

_"Newlyweds or not, they ought not be making those sorts of noises!"_

_"Well if you had made them on our honeymoon, maybe we would still be doing that after twenty years of marriage!"_

Erik looked angry, amused, and more than a little proud, but Christine looked mortified, most likely because it had been her voice ringing loudly and clearly through the walls of the hotel.

"I think I'm going to die," she whispered, drawing the covers up over her face. "Why didn't you tell me to be quiet?"

"Because I enjoyed it too much," Erik murmured, sliding close to her and revealing a blushing face. "I _loved _hearing you make those noises. Besides, if you are that passionate now, I cannot wait until we learn to do this in other ways."

Christine grew quiet then, and he smiled knowing she was wondering what that meant but was too shy to ask. The sounds of the couple arguing faded with the slamming of the door, and Erik chuckled as she let out a breath of relief.

"They'll probably report us to hotel management."

"Let them," Erik replied, nuzzling her shoulder. "It was worth it."

He ran his hands over her body, silently pleading with her to enjoy the same heavenly afterglow that he was reveling in, and finally she turned to face him.

"I've never felt like this before. Never_ that._"

"You waited," he said softly, then gave her a questioning look. "For me?"

"Perhaps I never realized it, but yes," Christine answered, touching his cheek. "I took your journal, and I was so angry with myself for how I had treated you. Erik, if I had known the things that you had gone through...if I had known how you felt about me..." She lifted her hand slightly and brushed the hair out of his eyes, her fingers skimming over the uneven flesh near his scalp. "I swear that I never would have turned my back on you."

"I should have had more confidence in you...and in me."

"We're here now."

Erik slid a lean thigh between her soft ones, wrapping one arm around her back and sweeping the long length of it. Ah yes, they were. They were here now, after everything. He tried not to think of Lesley Ann, and how he would have been married to her in a few months had Christine not appeared in his life, and his heart was saddened thinking of the day when she found out that he and Christine had married in secret. He had no regrets where Christine was concerned, but Lesley...

"I could have...we could have...," Christine trailed off, her hand dropping to her stomach, then she met his eyes. "Do you think...?"

His breath caught, and for a moment he allowed himself to dream that it were possible. For his wife to grow with their child, and to have a brood of bouncing beautiful children just like Francois and Patrice. Christine's eyes were so hopeful that he could not bring himself to dash her thoughts of motherhood. He swallowed the fear and kissed her. "Perhaps," he agreed, his tone neutral. "Or perhaps if we work very hard together, we can retrain your voice, and I can see you shine on stage."

"My voice..."

"Christine, you hit most of the notes in _Faust_ just a few moments ago. I think you're too afraid to try. I want to hear you sing for me again. I want to see you on stage, because I've never seen you start an opera and finish it."

She gave him a puzzled look. "What about Hannibal?"

"Hannibal?" he scoffed, turning onto his back. "I was below the stage, basking in your glory in the shadows because they gave that insolent boy my box. I never saw you. Il Muto? Silent role. Don Juan?" He laughed softly. "My beautiful, talented student, and I've yet to truly see what I helped create."

"Oh, Erik." His compassionate wife flung an arm around him and squeezed him tightly. "I'm so sorry. For everything. Especially for losing what we worked so hard for."

"Will you try to sing again?" he asked hopefully. "For me?"

"I would do anything for you. Anything."

He closed his eyes a moment, thinking about what he was asking of her. Did he want her to return to the stage forever? It was selfish and startling to realize that the answer was no. It had always been no. His greatest fear had always been to let Christine shine, then watch her slip away from him as the other stars around her began to entice her into glowing brighter. He'd wanted her triumph, yes, but her friendship and love had succeeded it by far.

"You said that you didn't want your career anymore," he began hesitantly. "Did you mean that?"

Christine raised on one elbow, staring down at him. "Yes, I did. I make a terrible diva. And I have you now. Why would I wish for such an empty life?"

"Fulfilling your destiny is not empty, Christine. Music is not empty," Erik said quietly.

"With you, I shall always have music. The stage you wish to set me on does not make me happy. For you, I want to sing once more. Perhaps another season? Or perhaps only one performance. But I do not want to spend the rest of my life seeking fame. I never needed it to begin with, and I certainly don't need it now."

"It could take months to retrain you. Years. Even then, there may only be certain operas that you could sing."

"Then perhaps you need to write an opera to suit my voice."

Erik gave her a startled look. "Who would allow an unknown composer to have his work performed?"

"Juliette has connections, even I have one or two," Christine responded coyly. "What? Monsieur Opera Ghost does not wish to have a lending hand? You are brilliant, Erik. Your music is magnificent. I commend you for teaching, but I think you were meant for greatness."

"I like teaching," Erik admitted, gazing into her eyes. "Perhaps I'm a bit uncouth, but it gives me more satisfaction to hear my students perform than to see some miscreant destroy my work. Besides, I think I am too temperamental for even the stoutest conductors."

"My husband is a diva in his own right," Christine chuckled. "You are worse than Carlotta!"

"Oh, Christine, how you wound me! Whatever happened to the caterwauling Carlotta anyway?"

"She lives in London with her new husband. Well, third new husband. They all seem to have a knack for dying, much to her benefit. She does have a little daughter now. She named her Carmine, and the girl looks to be every bit as much of a hellion as her mother."

"Piangi?" Erik asked curiously.

"He has taken up composing." Erik's horrified look made Christine giggle, and she nestled against his side before he could comment.

Erik grew silent for so long that she thought he had drifted off, but suddenly his voice rumbled again. "The Comte de Chagny, how does he fare?"

"He's going to be a father," Christine said quietly. "He married an Italian woman, and she's the sweetest person you would ever meet. I think they are very happy together."

"And you, Christine? Will you be happy now? With me?"

"I am already happy, my dearest husband," she replied, raising her head to look at him. "Never doubt that."

* * *

I just realized that the very last chapter of the story has over 4000 words (about the same length as 2 full length chapters...for me anyway), and the next chapter has over 2600 so I may break the last two up. Don't kill me! I may not. I haven't decided yet. The last chapter is more of an epilogue than anything. The next chapter has some more sex and a little conclusion to the story now...then the epilogue covers the grandkids and stuff. Anyway, I've got to get started packing up stuff and giving away crap I haven't used in the last 4 years (anyone want a foodsaver or my husbands fishing poles?). LOL. He'd kill me.

* * *


	63. Day and Night

A warm breath caressed the back of her neck, and a broad hand splayed across her stomach. To Christine, waking in that manner filled her with a joy and a peace she had never known before. She knew before she opened her eyes that Erik was there, as she'd known all night long as he lay in bed with her, totally nude. Her husband, her love. Erik radiated heat with such a magnitude that she longed for it to be a cold winter night instead of a warm summer morning. Slowly she turned in his arms, surprised to find him still fast asleep.

_'The night had been long, indeed'_, she thought with a smile. Christine had lost count of the times they had kissed, but the number that they had made love was three. Three glorious times, each different, each breathtaking. A fourth might have been possible if Erik had not fallen asleep directly after that last languorous round, but he had, and Christine had contentedly watched him sleep until her own eyes closed. This morning an ache in her thighs reminded her of the time she'd raced a horse across a frigid beach outside of Helinski, and she grinned to herself, because this time it was Erik she'd ridden.

"Erik, wake up," she whispered, trailing her fingers along his ribs. "I'm starving."

"Mmm. I'm afraid that we're doomed then, because I don't have the strength to move."

"You didn't feed me last night."

"Are you a horse then?" he asked, raising his head and looking at her with one bleary eye. "Should I send for a groom as well?"

Christine gave him a level stare. "A simple bath will do."

"A bath, you say?" Erik tried to kiss her, but she turned her face away, giving him her cheek. "What is this, modesty in my wild little bride? After last night?"

"I could kiss you, but I really don't think you want me to," she replied, running her tongue over her teeth.

"Ah, then there's that," Erik muttered, rolling away from her. He passed one hand through his hair, trying to right it to no avail. Erik grumbled as he slipped on his clothes and tugged on the bell pull, shutting the door to the bedroom to conceal Christine as she skittered around the room, looking for her clothes.

"Juliette took my nightgown out, and she didn't pack me another!" she complained loudly. "Except this! And I don't think this qualifies as a nightgown!"

Before he could open the door to find out exactly what it was she had to wear, a maid knocked on the door. After brisk instructions to order a bath and a breakfast as quickly as possible, she disappeared, appearing unfazed by the scarred man in the honeymoon suite.

Trying to get back inside, Erik frowned when he realized the door was locked. "Christine?"

"You may not come in!"

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a knife and easily opened the door. Stopping just to stare, Erik smiled to see Christine twisting side to side, frowning at her reflection in the mirror. It shouldn't have been possible, physically at least, to want her again so soon, yet he did. Very much.

"Where did you get that?"

She spun around, mouth open. "How did you get in? Never mind! Forget I asked! Would you look at what Juliette packed me?" she demanded, gesturing at the deep red silk and lace, barely there ensemble.

"If you insist," Erik said, taking his time to gaze at her. "Should I pretend I am outraged? Because I don't think I'm that good of an actor, Christine. You look every inch a seductress. Well, except for the blushing schoolgirl expression."

Christine turned back to the mirror, scowling. "I look like a harlot."

Erik chuckled softly, going to stand behind her. He gazed at her reflection, burying half his face in her hair. "Beautiful. Tempting." Catching her eyes, he cupped her breast with one hand, sliding the other over her stomach then up her side. "My wife, she's lovely. Desirable."

"She's hungry," Christine groaned, turning in his arms. "Did you order us some breakfast?"

"Yes," he replied wryly. "And a bath, but you only get that if I'm allowed to join you."

"You're going to take a bath with me?" she repeated, her mind going blank. "How is that going to work?"

At the knock on the door, Erik pressed a kiss to her cheek then reached for a robe to tie around her waist. "We shall have fun discovering that, yes?" Chuckling, he let in a sturdily built man carrying a tray of food, and a maid who drew aside a set of doors to reveal a long copper tin tub. She adjusted a boiler then turned on a knob, instructing them to let it warm up before they began filling the tub. She set down some towels and soap, then cast a curious glance at Christine before leaving.

"Your breakfast, and your bath," Erik said, sweeping a hand toward the table. "Then..."

Christine blushed. "Erik, honestly, you're incorrigible!"

Erik seated himself beside her, enjoying teasing her openly about what they might do after breakfast. It was extraordinarily easy to turn her cheeks pink, and all he had to do was let his gaze linger a little longer than necessary.

"I should have taken the robe from you," he commented over his coffee. "Perhaps even that scrap of lace that your thoughtful friend, Madame Dvorak, was gracious enough to leave you with."

"It's hardly something an innocent bride should wear," Christine replied with a sniff.

"Ah, but you're no longer innocent," Erik murmured, tipping her chin up, then placed a slice of orange at her lips. "So you can wear whatever you like that reveals your beauty - as long as it's for my eyes only."

Christine bit half the orange, and he stole the other half with his mouth, sealing his theft with a triumphant, citrusy kiss. In one fluid motion he'd pulled her out of her chair and into his lap.

"I love you, Erik."

His hand slid up her bare leg, then traced the smooth line of her buttock. "I love you, Christine." Continuing up to her shoulder, he slowly removed the straps of her gown, revealing one breast, which he kissed thoroughly, then the other. "So much, I love you."

She moaned softly as he nipped at her sensitive skin, then gave him a devilish look when he shifted his hips, letting her know what she was doing to him. "At this rate, Monsieur Jeunet, we'll never leave this room."

"I can't see how that would be such a terrible thing...Madame Jeunet."

Erik lifted her up in his arms, sat her down on the chair, then crossed the room to begin filling the bath. Christine watched, eating her breakfast as he stripped down and climbed in without her. It was he who looked surprised though, when she stood and walked to him, letting the rest of the red silk slide down her thighs. Climbing into the opposite side, she settled into the water, going under for a moment and wetting her hair. Erik watched her pour a dollop of shampoo into her hand then close her eyes, breasts tilted up proudly as she washed her hair. His eyes fixated on them, and he grew harder beneath the water as they swayed and bounced for his fascination. Christine smiled smugly when she opened her eyes and doused her hair again to wash the soap out. Without another word she moved to his side of the tub on her knees, sank down, and kissed him with long, deep kisses. His eyes slammed shut and he groaned at the feeling of her warm, wet body sliding against his. Her hands tangled in his hair and she brought her breast to his mouth, loving the rasp of his beard as he sucked and nurtured each hardened peak.

Christine palmed the bar of soap and rubbed it across his back and shoulders, down his chest and arms, touching his own brown flat nipples with a curious smile. Biting his lip, he took it from her, repeating the gesture but doing more to drive her mad with his callused hands across her soft skin, with arms that could reach more places and lingered in just the right ones. Slick, laughing, gasping in pleasure, they kissed again, moving languidly together until Christine's sweet clear voice once again rang through the walls, soon followed by the sound of a man finally content with both life – and himself.

* * *

Christine smiled on her third evening as a bride at the curious sounds around her. "Where are we going?" she asked, feeling Erik's lips linger at her temple for a brief moment.

"You'll see soon enough, my wife," he responded.

He'd blindfolded her inside the carriage, ever secretive, and told her only that tonight she was to be given a surprise. They had walked for another half a block before Erik stopped, spoke in a low voice to someone, and then they entered a building. The faint smell of lemon oil filled Christine's senses, but it was only when Erik guided her further inside that Christine smiled to herself. They were in a theater, she was almost positive of it.

And it was not just a theater – it was an empty one. Her footsteps echoed on a marble floor, and the acoustics were wondrously familiar.

"Have you any guesses?"

"One or two," she replied, turning to smile in his direction. "Why did you bring me here?"

Erik didn't answer immediately – only doing so once they'd stopped walking and she could feel heat, knowing it was the footlights on the stage. He removed her blindfold then, and she blinked, startled at the sudden light.

"I wanted a new memory for us with music," Erik said softly. "Except I want you near me, always knowing that I'm here, and able to see me this time." A piano sat in the center of the stage, and Erik bade her to sit in the front row for a moment. "There's something I want you to hear first."

Christine smiled, watching her husband stride briskly to the stage, then to the piano. He didn't immediately take his place, instead, stood staring directly down at her – the only member of the audience.

"My lady."

"My...ah...man?" Christine replied, her breath catching. He looked absolutely perfect up there, as if he belonged to the stage. He had the presence that actors of every caliber envied, and she wished with all her heart for a way to give him a few moments of the triumph she had achieved. "What do you have for me?"

"A song for my beautiful bride. Juliette arranged for us to have the theater to ourselves for tonight. I thought you might like to hear me sing."

Instantly Christine's heart leapt, and she nodded eagerly, relieving Erik with a look of excitement. It had been so long since she'd heard the soft timbre, the seductiveness and beauty that had made a child worship him and a young woman come to love him. For much of her life, it had been his voice guiding her, comforting her, and cherishing her. Christine leaned forward, smiling when he gave a small bow then took his seat.

"May I have the title, maestro?" Christine asked.

Erik's head snapped around, then his eyes gentled. "You've never called me that before."

"Perhaps it is time I started. The title?"

Erik cleared his throat, obviously pleased with his new address. "I've called it, 'O, keep my heart'."

Christine didn't say anything, merely watched as his fingers found the keys, ensuring the piano was in tune. A soft melody began, and Christine held her breath at the way his expression changed, already lost in the song. Such a passionate man, her husband was, full of life, and love to give. He made her want to become the perfect wife in every way, something Christine had not especially thought about, other than what it would mean on an intimate level.

Suddenly Erik's smooth tenor voice was caressing her, filling her spirit as it had once and always.

_"Day and night! my love for you - the eternal light._

_Come my angel, fly with me through misty skies;_

_I shall wait until love blows deep into your heart."_

Without thinking, Christine climbed the steps left in front of the stage for rehearsals. Erik's voice soared through the theater, powerful vocals she had not heard since Don Juan. He had taught her with a softness that made it hard to imitate, only encouraging her voice to rise and rise and rise, until he had found the way to set it free.

_"Hear the man who burns for you, who loves you, o dark angel?"_

Erik's head bowed as she set her hand on his shoulder, sinking deeper into song and nearly leaving her alone on the stage. But she followed, hearing the most perfect song, one her heart rejoiced to hear. It was not only the words – it was Erik's music, his voice, and everything else about her angel.

_"Shining stars shall never match your eyes, my sweetest love endures for you – forever._

_Come my angel, take me from this life, spend with me your days._

_My heart is yours, o wife, keep it preciously guarded."_

"Oh, Erik," Christine whispered as the music faded. "You should compose an opera around that."

He turned to face her, offering a vulnerable smile. "The aria is for you. I wouldn't have the heart to kill either one of us, or cause further drama in our lives."

Christine sat beside him on the bench, facing the other way with her elbows propped against the piano. "True, I think we've had enough excitement, especially the last week."

"Yes, and if you'd been just a little more foolish, I dare say that I would have ended it with a funeral, rather than a wedding."

"Oh." Christine peeked at him beneath her lashes. "What are the chances you'll forget that soon?"

"Very slim," Erik replied softly. "I...the thought of losing you...it devastates me. I love you, Christine. I want our marriage to last for years. I wish to be with Bernadette until her hair is purely gray, and to watch Josephine become a young woman." Erik took her hand, then pressed a kiss into her palm. "I do regret to tell you that I will not...that is to say...I have thought about it, and it would not be prudent for us to have children. Anything else that you want, Christine, anything at all – save for that."

Watching him, she saw the smooth skin on the left side of his face begin to redden, and his jaw clench both in anger and embarrassment. "May I ask why?"

Haltingly he brought her hand to the scars along his cheek and scalp. "Because of this," he whispered, losing the nerve to look her in the eye. "I would not wish this on anyone."

A stir of regret filled her, but quickly she let it go. Erik would not be easily moved on this, and at the moment, children were the last thing on her mind. She had promised him that she would sing again, and sing she would. "No matter," Christine said, kissing his cheek. "I would love any child that you gave me, Erik. Now sing to me once more, and I shall warm up with you."

Erik's eyes lit in pleasure. "You will sing with me?"

"Anything you wish, my angel."

* * *

To the music of _Cielo e Mar_ from _La Giaconda_. The lyrics are mine. Eeeek! Not a lyricist by any means! Hope you enjoy on this Monday morning. Last chapter will be uploaded on Wednesday!! Then perhaps a short preview of what is to come?


	64. Anniversary

_Savannah – 1930_

Cassandra stumbled into the kitchen, sending a half hearted glare at the bright light, then at Gregory, who, as usual, was irritatingly cheerful as he ate his breakfast. She had the urge to tip his plate of grits into his lap, because he'd fallen asleep just after Grandfather had gone to bed, and she and Aunt Emmaline had stayed awake another hour, finishing the journals. If her mother hadn't woken her up, she would have slept much, much longer.

"Since your Aunt Emmaline is still abed, I'm making breakfast. What do you want?" Uncle Simon asked her, standing at the stove. Cassandra sent him a sullen look, and with a smile, he handed her a cup of coffee. "I'll ask again after you drink that. Why were you up so late?"

Her father cleared his throat, folding his newspaper in half. "Cassandra and Gregory were snooping yesterday and found our parent's journals," Richard said. "I believe Emmaline was more than happy to help them."

Simon and Richard exchanged a long look. They both knew, or believed that they knew, everything about their father's past. Much of their mother's remained a mystery, but when the boys had found themselves in one too many fights as young men, their father had set them down and given them a long speech on the futility of violence. After several references to a "terrible act", Erik had finally admitted to them what blood stained his hands, and after much consideration, told them why. Sworn to secrecy, the brothers knew that Emmaline would dearly love to know that family secret, but it was not one they were willing to share.

"Serves you right then, for poking your nose where it didn't belong," Simon said mildly. "You'd better hope your Grandfather doesn't find out."

"Oh, he was there last night," Gregory supplied, earning a severe look for speaking with his mouth full. Swallowing, he gave his father a chagrined look. "Grandfather came downstairs and took part of one of the journals with him as he left."

"Part of?"

Cassandra chuckled, hiding her face behind a coffee cup. "Aunt Emmaline was going to read about the wedding."

"Night," Gregory coughed beneath his breath.

Simon turned back to the counter, and began preparing his niece's breakfast, not wishing to comment or invite more of that particular subject to be discussed. He thought after several moments of blessed silence that he'd heard the end of it, then Cassandra let out a long, blissful sigh.

"I just wonder what happened to everyone. The journals only went as far as their wedding, and almost nothing has been written since. What happened to Lesley Ann? And I had no idea that Mrs. Jackson was Grandfather's student! Why, her son is a member of Fletcher Henderson's band!

Gregory reached into his breast pocket, then slid a yellowed envelope across the table to his cousin. "I found that last night. It must have fallen out of one of the journals. Lesley Ann's letter to Grandfather, I believe."

Simon and Richard exchanged a look, then simultaneously reached for the letter, almost tearing the envelope in half. Gregory and Cassandra gaped at them both, then Cassandra plucked it from their stilled hands.

"Cassandra...," her father began. "That is a private letter."

"Well Gregory's already read it, I know, so now it's my turn," she said, slipping from her chair and ducking around to the other side of the table.

_My dearest Erik,_

_As much as it pains me to write this, I know that I must. I've waited a very long time to find happiness, and believed at last to have found it with you. Forgive me if bitterness taints my words. I am angry now, but I know that with time the wounds shall heal. It is not the past summer I wish to reflect on in any case. I wanted to warn you that my father, the man whom you hold in almost constant contempt, has made threats against you, Miss Daae, and your student, Mrs. Jackson. Please understand that I still love him, even after all that he has done, but I can no longer tolerate what he has become. I allowed you to believe for far too long that his poisonous beliefs are those I share, when nothing could be further from the truth. I've found letters indicating that my mother was the daughter of a white cotton owner and a half African slave. I did not want to believe it at first – that my father could love and hate someone so desperately, for entirely different reasons. But it's there, and now I must discover the truth about the woman who was forced to abandon me as a child._

_My life is tied to the people you have so valiantly defended, far more than I ever knew. I am sorry if my ignorance is what has caused the deep rift that extended into every part of our relationship. I did not want you to know the truth – for I did not want to know it myself. It is time that I stopped running, and faced the my past. I am going to find my mother, who from what I understand, lives in Boston and has been trying to contact me almost all of my life. I know that by the year's end you will be wed, not to me, but to the woman you obviously love. _

_I envy Miss Daae, for she has you, and your devotion. I only hope that one day I can be so well loved._

_Yours very truly,_

_Lesley Ann _

"What is that?"

Cassandra jumped guiltily and lowered the letter at her grandfather's sharp tone. "Nothing!"

He started across the brightly lit room, the cane stabbing into the floor with each slow step that he took. "That letter. Where did you find that?" he demanded, not stopping until he was face to face with his granddaughter.

"Pop, she didn't mean anything by it," Richard said apologetically. "Gregory found it last night, and you know how nosy she can be."

Erik stopped in front of Cassandra, holding his hand out for Lesley Ann's missing letter. Bernadette had mentioned it to him once, but at the time he'd been entirely preoccupied with Francois and Patrice, then with getting married, and he'd forgotten all about it. "I came back from New York with Christine, and Lesley Ann was gone. I didn't hear from her for five years," he said quietly, to no one in particular. "I always thought she had left solely because of me. This explains...so much."

"You still cared for her, didn't you, Grandfather?" Cassandra said, impulsively hugging him.

Erik kissed her youthful cheek, and patted her back. "Lesley Ann is a good woman. She made a fine wife. Just not mine."

"But whatever happened to her?" Gregory asked. "And how come the journal said that you and Grandmother wouldn't have any children?"

"Well obviously he changed his mind. Isn't that right?" Cassandra said, smiling up at him.

Erik stared down into her brown eyes, so much like Christine's. Out of all his issue, and their own, Cassandra most resembled his wife. Sometimes it almost hurt to look at her, because she was every bit as beautiful, and favored her not just in looks, but in personality. "Not exactly," he finally replied, tightening his hold on her briefly. "Your Aunt Emmaline was a rather unexpected surprise - to both of us. Your grandmother was thirty five when she had her first child. Forty when she had her last. As for Lesley..." Erik pulled out a chair and settled himself down heavily. "Now there was a woman who turned out to be a surprise. You know it's strange, the Paris Commune briefly granted women the right to vote, to make their own decisions, and to ultimately stand on their own, but it was suppressed with violence and war. Here in America, you can stand on a street corner and hold a sign, and have no fear of being shot."

"Like Meg?"

Erik nodded. "Of course, Meg wasn't doing anything wrong, merely suspected of it. But Lesley...? The first I heard of her after my marriage was the outrageous rumor in town that she'd been arrested for picketing the mayoral election in Boston. Her mother was a member of the National Woman's Suffrage Association, and quite the speech giver, from what I understand. Lesley took up with it immediately – I guess so many years of living under your father's thumb can make a woman go to extremes."

"If she was a suffragette, then why did she ever marry?" Simon asked curiously.

"Her lawyer – the one who argued her case in court, and won, I might add – decided that he was going to marry her. Since she put up no resistance, I suppose she finally found what she was looking for. I've attended only a few weddings in my life, but I have to say that I'd never seen a bride look at her groom the way that Lesley Ann looked at Charles Fitzgerald," Erik smiled whimsically, recalling Lesley Ann's surprise when he'd greeted her after the ceremony. She'd forgiven him by then, though with Christine she would always remain reserved. Over the years he'd kept in touch, always wishing her well and helping when he could. "She switched her attention from women's rights to those of children after her marriage. I think by last count, she'd adopted around six children, and helped hundreds of others through her work with various agencies. Simon, I would think you and Richard would remember having to serve lunches for the masses on Easter when you were young? That was your mother's idea, but it was Lesley Ann's cause. If she wasn't as old and tired as I am, I daresay she'd still be out there crusading."

Erik tucked the letter into the pocket of his shirt, and glanced up at the baffled expressions of his family members.

"What is it?"

"Mrs. Lesley_ Fitzgerald_," Richard murmured. "_She_ was your fiancée?"

"The one and the same," his father replied softly.

Simon and Richard both began to chuckle. "No wonder Mr. Fitzgerald was always so possessive of her when you were around."

Erik blinked at his sons. "What are you talking about? Charles and I get along quite well." He glanced over to Christine as she came into the room, heading straight for the coffee. "Don't we, my love?"

"Charles doesn't like you," Christine said over her shoulder, "because you send Lesley Ann a present every year on her birthday. I never liked it myself, I might add. But I think you know that, don't you?"

"Well." Erik stared out the window for several moments. He'd sent her a small gift each year as a token, not of the memory of their betrothal, but of their friendship. He had no idea if she wanted the things or not, though she always responded with a very polite note, thanking him for the present. And yes, he'd known that Christine had not liked it, especially during her confinements, but he'd never tried to hide what he was doing. "Neither Lesley nor Charles ever said anything to me."

Christine sat across from him, the same exact table in which they had taken their meals with Bernadette until she died at the turn of the century. She'd nearly missed the birth of Gregory, and had in fact, missed Cassandra's entirely. Secretly Christine thought that Simon had been more affected by his Aunt Bernadette's death than any of her other children, because her firstborn son was more like Erik than Richard was, and it had created an unbreakable bond between the two. Poor Richard had only his mother's favor, although none of their children had ever lacked for love. She inserted her gnarled fingers through those of Erik's, wishing briefly that he could play for her again. He hadn't been able to do so in the last ten years with arthritic fingers and aching joints. "You'll see them both tonight, dear. Maybe you can ask Charles then what he thinks of you sending his wife birthday presents."

Erik grumbled something unintelligible beneath his breath, then raised slightly bushy white eyebrows to glare at Simon. "It was your wife's idea to have this get together, you know."

"It's your fiftieth wedding anniversary. Well, a belated one by several months that is. But you remember that Emmaline was touring, and I was in Paris teaching on your fiftieth," Simon reminded him, setting a plate of eggs and grits in front of his father. "And it may have been her idea, but Aunt Josephine is the one who sent out the invitations. We were planning on just family, but she invited some of your former students, the Paumards with their horrendously large brood of offspring, and of course, the Fitzgeralds."

"Not to mention Radar Jackson," Gregory said excitedly. "He's a superb piano player!"

"Better on strings," Erik murmured, thinking of Viola's son. How proud his mother would have been, and undoubtedly was before she died, of her only child. It had been twenty years since her passing, and Radar still had the good grace to visit his first music teacher and patron. The boy had lived here in this very house, learned all that he possibly could, and had played with his own children even though he'd been almost ten years older than Emmaline. Sometimes Erik thought his daughter had developed a _tendr__é_ for the soft spoken, handsome musician, but Radar seemed indifferent to her, treating her like a sister or friend, rather than the beautiful woman that she was. "Who else is coming?"

Christine glanced at Simon, and he nodded once. She sat back in her chair and met her husband's eye. "The Comte de Chagny, and his family."

Erik nearly choked on his grits as he gaped at his wife. "De Chagny? Coming here?"

"He arrived in Savannah yesterday," Simon confirmed quietly. "_Mother_ insisted that he receive an invitation."

Erik gave Christine an accusing glare. "You invited that jackanapes to our anniversary party?"

"He's been in New York for the last four months. His eldest daughter lives there," Christine said defensively. "You know I've stayed in touch with him over the years."

"I know that, dear. But there is a vast difference between writing a letter, and sending him an invitation to _our_ home - to celebrate _our _marriage."

Christine sent him a withering look. "What do you think he's going to do? Sweep me off my feet? As old as we are, we'd both break a hip! Besides, you can't tell me that you still harbor ill feelings for him after almost sixty years."

"I just don't see why he had to be invited," Erik grumbled. "He was never _that_ charming."

"And you were?" Christine returned sweetly.

"De Chagny?" Cassandra inquired innocently. "He was your fiancé before you married Grandfather?"

"No!" Erik denied vehemently.

"That's what we read in the journals," Gregory said obtusely. "But you loved her first."

"Technically I knew Raoul long before I knew your Grandfather," Christine put in, wincing at the flash of indignation in Erik's eyes.

"I loved you first," he said sharply. "First _and only_, Christine."

Simon crossed the room, seeing how riled his father was becoming. It was somewhat amusing to hear this old argument after so many years. It hardly ever surfaced, and always ended with his mother contrite and trying to placate his irritated father. When he had been younger, it always culminated in their disappearance for several hours, or being sent to bed early so that their fight could be carried out in the privacy of their bedroom. Fight first, love later. Such was the way his parents had always been. "Come on, Pop. You can ride with me to pick up Aunt Josephine and Uncle Horace. You know they said she wasn't supposed to be driving anymore."

Erik stared at Christine a moment longer, then rose. "If De Chagny steps a foot into this house, I'll toss him out on his ear," Erik warned.

"I find it hard to believe you could be so unforgiving of him still," Christine said quietly. "You've retained a far closer friendship with Lesley Ann than I have had with Raoul. I haven't seen him in a very long time, Erik. He was happily married for forty years, and has more children than we do. I hope you will show him the same respect that I have given your ex fiancée."

With a slight grunt, Erik turned and followed Simon from the room.

# - # - # - #

It was hours later as the caterers began to arrive, that Erik found Emmaline and Christine in their bedroom. He looked at his daughter as she fixed her mother's hair, now a silver gray that matched his own. It had lost its curl over the years, becoming more of an unruly soft wave instead of the vibrant dark curls, but in the early morning light, she still resembled a fuzzy headed angel. His heart felt heavy in his chest, filled with regret, as it often was when they quarreled.

"Hello, Pop," Emmaline said, spritzing her mother with perfume. "Come to see the lovely guest of honor?"

"I need help with this," he replied vacantly, gesturing to his necktie. "I never have liked these suits."

Christine turned to watch as their daughter began to tie it for him. She smiled hesitantly, and he returned it immediately, silently seeking forgiveness for his anger on their special day. Emmaline brushed her hand over his thin chest, wiping away a stray piece of lint. "I love you, Pop," she whispered, giving him a quick kiss on his red cheek. "You look handsome tonight."

Erik gave her a tired smile. "Thank you, sweetheart," he replied, well accustomed to biting his tongue when his family – the women, mostly – decided he needed to hear a compliment. "Why don't you go make sure your brothers aren't into any trouble?"

Emmaline straightened his tie one final time then left the room, grinning because Simon and Richard should have been the ones of least concern, and always had been.

"You do look handsome," Christine said softly. "I haven't seen you in a suit since Richard's wedding."

"This is the same suit," he muttered, sitting down beside her at the vanity. "I probably won't ever need a new one."

Christine turned to face him, staring into his eyes. "Almost fifty-two years."

"Yes."

"We were both so foolish, weren't we? Sometimes we still are," Christine said gently. "But I still love you just as I did the day we married. Long before that. I was devastated when I found out you were engaged to another woman."

Erik gave her a startled look. "Why didn't you say anything? You acted as if you were happy for me, not that you were jealous."

"Jealous?" Christine smiled faintly. "Oh yes, there was jealousy. I was so afraid of being seen as selfish, and disrupting your happiness, that I nearly boarded the first ship back to Sweden. The day I brought Josephine here was the day I learned about your engagement. You were kissing Lesley in the trees down by the river with your mask off, and I felt as if I'd just stepped into Hell."

"That bad, hmm?" Erik asked, oddly pleased. "I wish you'd told me how you felt about Lesley Ann. It might have helped me understand your anger when I sent those gifts, had I known."

Christine patted his hand. "No matter. You only had eyes for me, and I've always known _that_."

"I've loved you from the first time that Bernadette brought you into the opera house. Shy, fragile Christine, who couldn't go a single day or night without a few tears. You grew up into a beautiful young woman, and I tried to stay away from you because I never thought I could be looked on with anything less than terror. And if it hadn't been for that first kiss, I might have proven myself right."

"Oh, Erik." Christine took his hand, feeling a burst of sadness in her chest that he could still think that of himself after all these years. "You were never beyond hope. Never. Haven't all the happy memories in our marriage, and with our children, proven what a good husband and father you have been?"

Erik gave her an uncertain look, and she squeezed his hand tighter. "Christine, you, and our children have given my life meaning, made it worth living." He said softly as he leaned over and gently kissed her, not wanting to smear her lipstick.

"You can't forget your music, Erik. You're a renowned composer..."

"Not under my own name," he interrupted.

"Well, that's only because you have a sordid past." Christine teased him.

"I owe my success there to you as well, Christine," Erik continued. "You and Juliette used your connections to get my compositions published."

"Well, even our connections wouldn't have helped if your work hadn't been brilliant. And several of your students have gone on to make names for themselves in music as well."

"You really do love me, don't you? You've always been my biggest fan."

"You know that I do." Christine answered, grinning. She was happy that Erik's mood seemed to have lifted for the party. "Do you remember how hard we worked so that I could sing one final time? _Le roi de Lahore. _We fought over everything from the piece, to where I should perform. You wanted to see me sing at the Royal Theater, where I'd been _prima donna_, and I wanted to stay in America."

"Only because you didn't want to travel by ship," Erik replied.

"Yes, well." She sniffed. "You got your way, didn't you? I held my head over the stern of the ship, and you had the least romantic bed partner for two weeks."

"My little cabin girl," he murmured. "I did get my way. I got to see my beautiful star shine. That was all I needed."

They both glanced up as Richard knocked on their door, a dazzling smile on his face. "You two lovebirds ready? Everyone is waiting."

"De Chagny?" Erik asked humorlessly.

"Is waiting downstairs," Richard confirmed. "As are the rest of your guests. Come, Mother. Take my arm."

Erik reached for his cane, grappling with it for a moment, then rising. "Might as well get on with it," he said painfully. "Is your Aunt Josephine still in the library writing?"

"I'm right here, Erik."

He met the sparkling gaze of his cousin as she sailed into the room, kissing Christine first and then giving him an enormous hug. "I was afraid we'd seen the last of you this evening."

"A stroke of inspiration. You know how it is," she said affectionately as they left the room to head downstairs ahead of Christine and Richard. "But now you're so old, you probably forget what it is you want to write down before you find your pen."

"You tease me now, but you're going to be as old as I am one day," Erik replied, chucking her under the chin. They stopped briefly on the landing, and Erik gazed down at the guests milling around their house, his eyes widening at the sight of who could only be Raoul de Chagny – confined to a wheelchair, with an astonishing amount of wrinkles on his once handsome face. Beside him stood a beautiful young woman whom Erik thought must have been his daughter, Honora. Radar and Emmaline were chatting amicably with Simon and Gregory, and Cassandra was cornered by her mother and Aunt Eloise as they wiped a suspicious substance from her lips. Francois and Patrice were sitting quietly, surrounded by their children and grandchildren, while Lesley Ann and her husband, Charles, stood together near the door, trying not to seem out of place.

"Everyone is here, Erik," Christine said, moving forward to take his hand. "All our friends and family. Over fifty years worth of people who love you - and me."

"Yes," he agreed, his throat beginning to tighten. "I can see that."

"You'll behave yourself then?" she whispered, giving him a subtle glance.

"I'll certainly try," he replied.

"After you, my Angel," Christine said softly.

* * *

IAPG laughing nervously at the idea of a sequel...um...no! Sorry, but no, lol. This is the end of the line for Leitmotif. I really hope you all enjoyed it. From the bottom of my heart I would like to thank everyone who reviewed, especially Phantomforever since she is anonymous and I've never had a chance to thank her because I can't find her email! (Naughty girl!). I'd also like to thank Rappleyea because without her I never would have been able to finish this story. It has been a wonderful journey, and I hope you will keep me on your alerts list.

Who knows...you may see me again this time next year. I've decided any future stories I post will be completed as Leitmotif was so that I can make changes to it before it is ever posted. In the meantime, thank you again for all your wonderful reviews. As promised, a preview of my next story, which will be a modern POTO story. All I can say is it won't be based on the 2004 movie (sorry, no schmexy Gerik). This is unedited and subject to change.

* * *

1977

The colored tent sheltered him from the wind, but not the cold. Dark blue shadows became fragmented images, evolving into the shape of man, woman, and child, but the yellow eyes closed tightly at their laughter.

'_Let them_, he thought wearily. '_Let them stare. It matters no more.' _

Wasn't this what he wanted, after all? To overcome the pain that the reaction in his horrid face inspired. His family had not, and indeed, no one else. The dark streets of forgotten cities had become stained with the blood of those who'd hurt him, and every place along the way to his destination. The night had become his dearest companion, as had the cold wind in this ancient country.

But even great magicians, hideous might they be, needed food and clothing.

So he had come here and offered the only thing that he possessed which would interest anyone. For thirty days he had willingly bound himself to the ropes inside the tent and allow them to stare. With the trick of lighting, he actually appeared dead, which he far preferred to them thinking he was really alive. Better an animated corpse than a living dead thing.

It was only at the sudden bright flash of light did he react – violently. "No photographs!" Bhuir shouted, grabbing the camera and smashing it to the ground, even as Erik lunged forward, his bone white flesh glistening in the light, twisting at an unnatural angle to free himself. The sockets inside his shoulders spun round almost to the point of dislocation, then his entire body went limp, the ropes slipping from his wrists to his hands.

The crowd which had previously been enthralled with the half naked _'living'_ corpse began to scream in terror. Erik carefully moved his shoulders back in place and stepped towards his employer.

"You said there would be no cameras," he said in a low, controlled tone. "You lied to Erik."

"Is broken, see?" Bhuir said fearfully, stomping on the lens. "You came to me. You wanted pay, I gave. No problems, see?"

Erik made a soft humming noise, and watched the showman's eyes become glazed. As the rest of the crowd screamed and ran, the photographer stepped forward, trying to retrieve his camera.

"What did you do?" the man demanded. "I could have made a fortune with those pictures!"

The humming abruptly stopped, and Erik tilted his head.

"I think not Sir," he said quietly. "No one takes Erik's image."

He bent down, his adolescent death's head close to the frightened eyes of a balding English tourist.

"And lives to see another night," he added, sliding a coiled wire from his trousers. "Perhaps we shall see one another in Hell? Wait for me, Monsieur. I pray it won't be long for me now, that I can meet my maker."

"Only God creates," the man whispered, hypnotized by the magical voice.

"Take my image with you in death, and know the truth."

Erik dropped the fresh corpse, and unbound his hands from the wire. As he straightened, the shadows in front of him moved, and an equally tall and thin figure broke away from the wall. Bhuir, seeing their previously unannounced visitor, promptly fled the tent.

"You promised," a cold voice said, cutting through his numbed mind. "_You_ lied to _me_, Erik."

"Micheil." He stared at the older boy, immediately defensive. "It was not so long ago that you would have done the same."

"I am not talking about _him_," Micheil said contemptuously. "You are no better than a prostitute, allowing these people to pay for a glimpse of your ugly face."

Erik grabbed his robe from near the makeshift stage, not seeing the thin white hand which pocketed the Polaroid photograph, revealing a misshapen face and yellow eyes. "What are you doing here? Isn't this time supposed to be with your dearly beloved bride?"

He turned back to look into the long thin face, which was now pinched with anger. "She's dead."

Erik merely nodded, as if it were to be expected, but he had not forgiven _the other_ for abandoning him, and in the most childish way he never would. Micheil was his mirror in so many ways. A brother through blood and twisted fate. Maternal exposure to experimental chemicals had left Erik with a severe facial disfigurement and Micheil with ones far more emasculating. They were both unusually tall, narrowly built, and extremely capable of murder.

"She was not supposed to question me," his brother said bitterly. "I knew what was possible, but she...she would not stop. She laughed. _Laughed_."

"So you killed your wife because you failed to fuck her?"

He heard Micheil's sharply drawn breath, and waited for him to strike. It never came. When he finally glanced back at him, he found his brother's head hanging low, and his face full of shame.

"You don't understand what its like," he finally muttered. "Not for a few more years anyway. Enjoy your ignorance while you can, Erik. One day I may have to stop you from doing as I have most unfortunately done."

* * *

2008

"It's her," Erik murmured, leaning forward in his box. "The girl. _Christine_."

She'd been given one of the worst seats in the theater, but even from his vantage point he could see her beauty. She was early, just as he liked to be. _Far too early,_ he mused. There was hardly anyone else in the auditorium at the moment. Suspicious by nature, he questioned her reasons. In his ten years of living in Toronto, he'd never noticed her before.

And the delicate blond was someone Erik most certainly would have noticed. He wondered what color her eyes were, and judging by the skin hugging deep royal blue dress that she wore, decided it must match her eyes. Then she would be perfect, indeed. He admired such lovely features, even knowing how painful the image would be later when he was alone again at home.

"Why are you here?" he whispered, letting his voice float down and settle behind her.

The auditorium of the theater was too vast for the acoustics of his voice to carry, but she glanced behind her not a moment later, then settled back in her seat.

"You won't enjoy the play from there. Pity. It's one of my personal favorites." Christine didn't appear soured by the location she'd been assigned to, but Erik felt a niggle of annoyance. Why had she appeared on his door the night before? Who was she? What did she _want_?

He lifted the call receiver in the box, dialing directly to management.

"This is Remondet. There is a girl seated in row four nineteen in a blue dress. I want her moved to the box directly across from mine."

Without waiting for a response he hung up, and moments later a steward rushed forward, offering his arm to the girl. She looked alarmed at first, as if she were worried she'd done something terribly wrong, and then confusion set in.

"But I don't wish to move!" she exclaimed, loud enough for him to hear.

"Excellent voice, my dear," he murmured softly. "But you _will _move. So I can better see you."

Erik watched as the attendant bent low towards her, obviously trying to explain. He then turned and gestured to the box in which he was sitting, forcing Erik to slam back in his chair with a scowl. The girl looked up towards him, then back to the attendant.

"He's in there? Are you sure?"

"Yes miss. Now please, allow me to guide you to your new seat."

She gazed up at his box for several moments, her eyes searching the shadows and finding nothing but more shadows. At length she nodded, and followed the steward out of the theater then upstairs to a lavishly decorated box, straight across from the famous producer, E. Remondet.

Christine hesitated a moment before entering, then looked at the neatly dressed worker. "Mr. Remondet is a very strange man, yes?"

"Enjoy the performance, Miss Daaé. I will be waiting just outside should you need refreshments."

With that he gestured that she should enter, and she stared down at the now filling theater in astonishment.

Then she looked up, and nearly gasped aloud.

The box across from her remained as dark as before...only now an eerie yellow glow, which at first seemed one source, then two, emanated from the partially shrouded vestibule.

Ominous. Threatening.

Christine shivered slightly and turned her eyes to the performance. Never again did she glance up, but without looking she knew herself to be scrutinized in a most intimate way.

* * *


End file.
